


Unauthorized

by courageandcheer



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, M/M, Some depictions of violence and injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 60,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courageandcheer/pseuds/courageandcheer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2021. The height of success for the Jaeger Program has passed, and the government is withdrawing funds for Jaeger construction. Combeferre, fresh out of medical school, has made his way to the section of the Anti-Kaiju Wall off of the Oregon coast. While he's there, he meets a group of friends who are attempting to take matters into their own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I said I wasn't going to write another Pacific Rim AU, yet here I am... Hope you enjoy! :)

_November 2021_

The bus barreled over a series of potholes with an unpleasant thump, sending shock waves through the windowpanes and the rattling the seats. Combeferre, who had been resting his forehead against the cool glass, was jolted awake by the vibration. He sat up straighter in his seat and pushed his square-rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of his nose with his middle finger.

He blinked rapidly and gazed out the window, but it was still too dark on the highway to discern anything. He turned his attention back to the rows of people in front of him and absentmindedly fanned the small bundle of papers in his hand near his face. He adjusted the collar of his standard-issue white shirt where it chafed against the nape of his neck.

They approached Portland by way of the eastern bridge. The light of a solitary skyscraper was all that remained of the city skyline. The headlights shone over the crumbling infrastructure of the concrete bridge. It was riddled with potholes and the yellow road paint was so faded that it was almost nonexistent. Combeferre felt a nervous jolt in the pit of his stomach when he noticed the apparent lack of bridge upkeep. He instead focused beyond the concrete pillars, where the reflection of the moon was visible in the churning river water.

A high-pitched squeak of the brakes announced their arrival at the bus station. He waited patiently in the aisle for fifteen minutes while the people gathered in front of him disembarked. When it was his turn, he slung the straps of his fading blue backpack over his shoulders and traversed the three metal steps. A cool breeze tickled his cheeks and pushed his dark hair away from his eyes. He breathed deeply and was grateful to have his feet firmly planted on the ground.

“Papers?” an officer barked from a nearby podium, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He held out the required packet in the palm of his hand. The official, a woman in a black police uniform with close-cropped ginger hair, squinted at the lines near the edge of the page that indicated his occupation and final location. She frowned.

“A doctor?” she said slowly. Her hazel eyes scrutinized his face and the single piece of luggage strapped to his back. “Shouldn’t you be headed in the opposite direction?”

“No,” Combeferre answered firmly.

She consulted his identification card and stamped the required stamps of approval on his crumpled white paper. She handed it back over to him. “The bus to the Wall leaves at six o’clock sharp,” she informed him. “Don’t be late.”

Combeferre stepped to the side to allow the next person to approach the podium. He consulted his watch, the face of which had slipped around to the inside of his wrist. It informed him that it was nearly four in the morning. He switched his weight from his left foot to his right as he scanned the nearby buildings.

He ambled over to the gas station across the street and shelled out a couple of dollars for a lukewarm cup of coffee. The station had a wooden bench situated between two sparsely-stocked magazine racks. A small television was turned on in the corner.

Combeferre set his backpack on the floor and dropped down onto the bench. An urgent red banner flashed across the top of the television screen. He listened as a news reporter relayed the latest information about an impending Kaiju attack. As he sat in a gas station in downtown Portland with the shoddy fluorescent lights flickering and humming overhead, a Category Three beast was in the process of emerging from the breech.

His fingers tightened around his papers, where the words _THE WALL – OREGON SECTOR_ were typed across the destination line in black ink. A shiver ran down the length of his spine.

* * *

_August 2013 – The First Kaiju Attack_

A steady patter of rain against the windowpane could be heard over the rustling of paper. A single lamp illuminated an occupied desk with an abundance of dings and scratches embedded in the cherry wood finish. The combination of the half-drawn blinds and the overcast day outside dimmed the rest of the room considerably.

Combeferre, only a sophomore in college, hooked his right foot around the rung of his wooden desk chair and tucked his pencil back behind his ear. With his fingertips, he fanned out several different sheets of notebook paper. A neat stack of textbooks and color-coded notebooks bracketed his work space on both sides.

He gnawed on his lower lip and drummed his index finger on the desk as he consulted a hefty textbook. A blue sticky note was carefully pressed to the edge of the page, marked with the date of his corresponding lecture notes.

Satisfied with his understanding of synapses and action potentials, he relaxed against the back of the chair. The muscles in his shoulders and neck tensed almost immediately as he marveled at the silence that hung in the air. The quietude in his room in particular and the dorm building in general provoked a frown. There was no tread of feet down the carpeted hallway and no hum of conversations floating through half-open doors.

Combeferre brushed a few stray locks of hair away from his eyes as he stood up to investigate. He paused for a minute to refold a blanket and to adjust the pillows on the overstuffed couch. He cleared away two mugs from the coffee table and left them in a small silver sink before venturing out into the hallway.

Doors were thrown open, but, when he peered inside, there was a curious absence of students slouching in armchairs and splayed across beds. He eventually found them all gathered in the lounge around a flat screen television mounted on the opposite wall.

Two girls beckoned him over with a wave and made room for him to stand between them.

“What’s going on?” he asked with wide eyes. There had to be at least thirty of his residents gathered together in the cramped lounge, but no one was making a sound.

“Today, we bring you absolutely horrifying news from San Francisco,” a local news anchor narrated. The ocean water whipped violently in the background of the shot. She gripped the microphone with a shaking hand and white knuckles.

One girl wrapped her arms around his shoulders, while the other smaller girl clung on to his waist. He draped an arm around each of them and pulled them closer. He squinted at the television and jerked his neck forward a single practiced movement. His glasses slipped from their resting place on the crown on his head and down over his eyes.

His vision sharpened as images of the ongoing destruction of the Golden Gate Bridge were broadcast across the screen. A whole section of bridge had fallen into the water and the metal around the remaining sections was twisted beyond recognition. Smoke hovered around crushed cars and augmented the notorious San Francisco fog.

“We have no official word on what this… this _beast_ might be or where it may have come from,” she continued. “All we know is that the death toll is rising by the minute and airborne attacks have been unsuccessful.”

Amateur photos of this so-called beast flashed across the screen. Judging by the angle of the pictures and supplemented by news reports of the structural damage to the bridge, he'd been able to estimate that the unknown creature must have been at least three hundred feet tall. Combeferre’s eyes flickered over to the resident biology major, whose face flashed with a combination of genuine curiosity and astonishment.

That night, he lay in bed for hours with one leg thrust out from underneath the comforter. The unnamed beast was still ravaging San Francisco with no end in the foreseeable future.

He stared up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan and wondered if he’d ever sleep through the night again.

* * *

_November 2021_

It took another ninety minutes to reach the coast. The sky was turning a pale blue over the summit of the Wall, which was admittedly more of a framework than an actual wall at this point, as the bus pulled into the station.

This time, there was no official to check his paperwork when stepped off the bus. The only person at the otherwise deserted stop was a short man with an unruly mop of light brown hair.

Combeferre shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around his chest. He approached the other man, who was clutching a white paper cup in each of his hands.

He held out one of the steaming cups to Combeferre with a smile. “Combeferre, I take it?”

Combeferre nodded and gratefully accepted the offering.

“So, you’re the man who was crazy enough accept my job offer,” the other man continued. He waved some of the steam curling up from the cup away from his hazel eyes and stuck out his free hand. “I'm Joly,” he said. His palm was still radiating warmth from his grip on the coffee cup.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Combeferre said as he returned the handshake.

“Likewise.” Joly led the way to a black Jeep with more dings and key marks than actual paint. He pulled out of his parking space and reached over to crank up the heat. “It’ll be a few minutes,” he explained, a note of apology in his voice.

“Sounds good,” Combeferre replied as he gazed out the window. It was grey and overcast, but the early morning wind was in the process of dispelling the clouds. For lack of anything better to do, he turned in his seat and attempted to rekindle their conversation. “So. Are you the only other doctor at the clinic?” 

“Yes. Believe it or not, it’s not a popular job,” Joly explained. “Which is why I was so very grateful when you responded to the ad with such enthusiasm.”

Combeferre felt his cheeks grow warm. The notice had popped up onto his computer and, after careful scrutiny of his resume and his letters of recommendation, he responded to it within two hours. It had been over-kill, even by his own standards. But he needed the job. 

Joly adjusted the cruise control and relaxed back against the seat. “Why did you really come out here?” he wondered out loud. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Combeferre shot back. He was still bleary and half-asleep from the bus ride, leaving him with fraying patience. The evident suspicion in the question rubbed him the wrong way. Ordinarily, it wouldn't have been enough to make him bristle. But he'd been asked variations of the same question four times in the past two days. It was getting old very quickly. 

Joly backpedaled. He removed one hand from the steering wheel, palms facing outward in a gesture of surrender. “Nothing bad, I assure you. I just meant that someone like you could probably manage to find a job further inland.”

Combeferre acknowledged his comment with a nod. “Yes, I could. But I don’t want to.”

Joly was unable to stifle his laughter. He tightened his lips in an attempt to hold it in but was entirely unsuccessful. “Are you aware that there’s a Category 3 Kaiju en route to Alaska as we speak?”

“Yes."

“And that we had a close encounter with a Kaiju on its way up to Washington last month?” he added.  
  
“Yes. I heard about that, too.” Earlier this morning, to be exact, when the news had been playing on the television in the gas station began airing stories on the most recent Kaiju attacks.  

“And you still boarded the bus last night?” Joly drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “You really are brave,” he decided.

Combeferre scratched an itch at the back of his neck, in the place where the tag of his shirt always chafed uncomfortably against his skin, and then shrugged. "I guess I am," he agreed.

Joly made a right turn and parked the car in front of a small white-washed building. There were no other buildings surrounding it, making it appear as though it had spontaneously cropped up one day. The incomplete sections of the Wall loomed above it, only a few miles away. There was already a queue of people wrapped around the corner. Joly lifted his hand in greeting as he fished around for the keys in his coat pockets. 

The front doors opened to a tiny waiting area. Faded floral wallpaper was plastered against the walls. A single potted plant had been placed in one corner, and the shine on its leaves automatically gave it away as artificial. Grey folding chairs were scattered about the room, evenly spaced from each other in neat rows. The rest of the building consisted of three patient examination rooms and a small backroom for the storage of medication and other supplies. Grey metal shelves were bolted along the back walls, and the supplies there were painstakingly organized into plastic bins. It was only when he examined them more closely that Combeferre noticed the white labels affixed to each bin. 

“I’m sure you’ll be needing one of these,” Joly said, while passing over a portable x-ray machine. He'd grabbed it from the counter, which ran along the single wall without metal shelving. It was littered with cardboard boxes, and Combeferre figured this was the designated pre-bin sorting space. “The most common injuries here are welding burns and lacerations. I'm sorry, I'm afraid that’s about all the time that we have for briefing, seeing as your bus arrived marvelously late." He edged around Combeferre and headed back in the direction of the waiting room. “We’re already behind schedule,” he called out over his shoulder. 

Combeferre took a deep breath and draped his stethoscope around his neck. He was struck with the thought that he hadn’t even had a chance to even entertain any thoughts about how the day would go. The long bus ride and the hasty tour had left him no time to think, much less worry, about anything. He couldn't tell if his apparent lack of preparation was a blessing or a curse.  

By ten o’clock he had lost count of how many cuts he had disinfected and stitched up. He listened patiently to complaints about sour stomachs and chronic heartburn. At one point in the morning, he pressed a brightly-colored sticker to the hand a little girl with pigtails who came in with an ear infection.

During the rare moments when he had a break between patients, Joly observed Combeferre from afar. He marveled at his work ethic and at his sense of independence, which were something of a rarity in new doctors. But that was not to say that his independence could be mistaken for overconfidence. He didn’t hesitate to seek a second opinion when he was unsure of a diagnosis and he was unafraid to ask for another hand when he needed assistance with a particular procedure.

By the time one o’clock rolled around, he and Joly had worked together to extract at least five nails embedded in hands and had dealt with three cases of welding burns. Combeferre immersed himself completely in his work, humming as he watched his patients filter into and out of the room. He hardly noticed the day slip away.

The next time he looked up, the sun was hanging low in the horizon. The last patient had walked through the doors only ten minutes ago.

“Did you manage to get any lunch?” Joly asked sympathetically. He leaned over the waiting room desk, shuffling through a stack of papers.

Combeferre’s stomach grumbled, answering for him. “No,” he admitted. “But I do intend to get dinner.”

“If you can wait another five minutes, I’ll go with you,” Joly offered. “There’s a great Chinese place nearby.”

Five minutes turned into ten. And then twenty minutes had gone by before they'd managed to finish cleaning up the clinic. They disinfected and sterilized all of their instruments and prepared them for the next morning. They mopped up the drops of dried blood from the waiting room floor and replaced the white paper on all the examination tables.

Joly locked the clinic doors behind them and then knotted a blue scarf around his neck. He rejoined Combeferre and reached out to grip his shoulder.“You did well today,” he said. He inclined his head toward his Jeep to signal his invitation. “Dinner’s on me," he annouced. 

Joly attempted to use the short trip to the restaurant to draw Combeferre away from work talk before they sat down to eat, though it proved to be a bit harder than he initially anticipated.

“I’m mostly concerned about that older man named Riley,” he reported. “He came in for cough syrup for a cold, but I’m not convinced that it won’t turn in to bronchitis. I told him to come back in a few days if he wasn’t feeling better.”

“Okay. Keep an eye on him,” Joly said gently. “Any others?”

“No, but we should probably check in on Tom, too, just to make sure that his broken arm is healing correctly. It was a nasty fracture. Snapped all the way through in two places.”

Joly nodded and made a left turn into the restaurant parking lot.

Classical music drifted out from the mounted wall speakers as they stepped into the restaurant. Combeferre discreetly tugged the zipper of his jacket up all the way to his chin as they were escorted to an empty table in the corner. Only a faint suggestion of warm air flowed through the vents.

“I know this place leaves a lot to be desired, but the foot is worth it,” Joly promised, while unfolding his menu. He must've glimpsed the apprehensive look on Combeferre’s face because a moment later he added, “I highly recommend the orange chicken." 

Combeferre set down his menu, searching for a phrase that could properly convey his gratitude. He wasn't ready to admit it out loud yet, but he'd been subsisting on cups of instant noodles for the past month and hadn't frequented restaurants that much in the past few months. 

The two sat in a comfortable silence, sipping at room temperature glasses of water, until the waiter presented two steaming plates of food. The plates clattered as they came into contact with the wooden table. 

As soon as the first chunk of chicken settled in his stomach, Combeferre felt as though he could speak again. “I don't think anything could have ever prepared me for today,” he admitted. "I'm hoping it will get better with time?" 

“It will. It’s just a different world from medical school. A crueler world,” Joly remarked. “But you handled it admirably. ”

“You think so?”

“Yes,” Joly said firmly. His fork stilled, its motion suspended in the air above his plate. “Besides, none of the patients complained about you. That’s always a good sign.”

After another moment, Joly lowered his hand and balanced the fork on the lip of his plate. With his free hand, he reached out and grasped the hand that Combeferre was resting on the table top. “I’m glad that you were able to come,” he said before relinquishing his grip.

Combeferre ducked his head over his dish and immediately regretted it. The steam fogged up his glasses in a matter of seconds. “Thanks. I'm glad, too," he replied. He tugged off his glasses. He hooked his thumb into the hem of his shirt and attempted to coax away the steam. 

“I have a suggestion for you,” Joly said as he began to stab at his food again. He swallowed a mouthful before speaking again.

Combeferre replaced his glasses and resisted the urge to sigh at the small bit of steam that lingered near the bottom of the frames. “And what might that be?”

“I think that you should meet a friend of mine,” Joly proposed.

“Alright,” Combeferre nodded. He was now sipping a warm cup of green tea, that had cooled just enough to be properly enjoyed. He watched as the steam curled upward in wispy clouds. He was content and warm, a combination of feelings that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He might have agreed to do just about anything.

“He works at a club about ten minutes north of here.” Joly paused for a second and then amended his previous statement. “Well, it’s actually not a club. It's a gathering place."

“A gathering place?” he repeated. 

“Yes, it’s where people like to come and relax after the long shifts at the Wall,” he explained. 

“And why am I meeting this friend? Just for the fun of it?” Combeferre asked, unable to quell his curiosity.

Joly’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I’ll let him tell you more about that. Just promise me to go there with an open mind.”

“I will,” Combeferre said, sensing that he wouldn’t be successful in extracting any other information. He pushed an unused napkin toward Joly. “If you write down the address, I can head over there later tonight.”

Joly produced a ballpoint pen from the pocket of the coat he'd draped over the back of his chair. He wrote down an address in loopy cursive. He started to slide it across the table but halted its motion when Combeferre reached out for it. “Go tomorrow," he advised. "Tonight, you should rest. Which reminds me… do you have a place to sleep?”

Combeferre dug around in the backpack in the seat next to him and pulled out a folded sheet from his bundle of papers, held together with two criss-crossing rubber bands. His eyes scanned over the page. “It’s a government-issued apartment off of Fifth Street,” he said before refolding it and carefully replacing it.

"Oh, that's much too far to walk. I'll give you a ride."  
  
Combeferre opened his mouth to protest but was distracted by the arrival of the bill. Joly waved away the rest of his protests and covered the whole thing himself.  
  
They were quiet until Joly pulled up in front of the apartment building. Combeferre scrutinized the outside with a sense of dismay while the car continued to idle. The paint was peeling off the siding and in a handful of places, the shutters were completely missing from the sides of the windows, leaving only a lighter impression of paint in its absence. He pushed away his unease and instead tried to feel grateful that he had a place to sleep.

“You still have the address, right?” Joly asked, disrupting his train of thought.

Combeferre clutched it in his fist and raised his hand long enough to flash it in Joly's direction. He had just opened the car door and swung his legs over the edge when it occurred to him that he had neglected to ask about one crucial piece of information. He hopped out of the car and spun around on his heel. “Who am I supposed to ask for?"

“Oh!” Joly exclaimed. “That would be helpful, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.” Combeferre smiled as he leaned against the open car door.

Joly leaned over the center console. “Ask for a man named Courfeyrac," he instructed. 

“Would you mind saying it one more time?” Combeferre asked. “I want to make sure I pronounce it correctly.”

“Courfeyrac,” Joly repeated slowly. “Now you try it.”

After Combeferre had correctly reproduced the name, Joly reminded him that he would be back at seven. In turn, Combeferre gave his sincerest thanks for his insistence on covering the dinner bill. He stopped himself short of adding on another thank you for his unwavering faith in his skill and his judgement, even though he'd done nothing yet to warrant it. He figured that there was an opportune time for these things, and now was not it. 

“Sleep well!” Joly called out through the rolled down window. Combeferre only had enough energy to raise his hand in farewell.

* * *

Joly watched Combeferre as he swung open the glass door to the apartment complex and disappeared into the dimly lit building. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the button for the second number in his speed dial. He waited patiently as the dial tone sounded.

Courfeyrac answered seconds before the call was redirected to voice mail. “Joly!” he greeted. The familiar chatter of the club in the background filled the other end of the line. “What can I do for you?”

“I think I might have found the person you’ve been searching for,” Joly said, not bothering to conceal the excitement in his voice.

“Oh?” He could sense Courfeyrac's smile through the phone. “And who, exactly, have I been searching for?"

Joly sat back against the seat, readjusting his seat belt in the place where it was uncomfortably tight against his chest. “Remember how I was telling you last week about that rather enthusiastic answer to the open position at the clinic?”

"Is this the one who sent you three letters of recommendation for a volunteer position?” Courfeyrac clarified. 

“That’s the one.”

“It does ring a bell now that you mention it.”

Joly was quick to jump to Combeferre’s defense. “You would've never believed that it was his first day."

“I take it he’s talented, then." 

Joly exhaled through his mouth. “He’s a natural." 

“Hm,” Courfeyrac considered this for a moment. Joly heard the sound of glasses clinking and a peal of laughter erupting in the background. “It wouldn't hurt to have another doctor around."  
  
“My thoughts exactly.”

“Alright, I’m intrigued,” Courfeyrac declared. “Send him my way. I’ll scope him out.”

“Already a step ahead of you, my friend. I told him to meet you at the club tomorrow,” Joly replied. “Promise not to scare him away? I would really love for him to keep working at the clinic."

“I won’t. It happens _one time_  and no one ever lets you hear the end of it,” Courfeyrac said with an exaggerated sigh. Joly imagined him pouting and then waving the comment away with a swipe of his hand. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“Be nice,” Joly said with a hint of sternness. He turned the keys in the ignition and listened to the rumble of the engine.  

“Always am,” Courfeyrac laughed and ended the call.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the lovely [ ireallydontknowok](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ireallydontknowok/pseuds/ireallydontknowok). Hope you enjoy. :)

Combeferre was awake and pacing around his bedroom at five thirty the next morning. It had been a full day since the report about the Kaiju attack, and he wondered about the outcome. He hoped that the threat had passed and that there hadn’t been any casualties, but the lingering uncertainty made him uneasy. His laptop was propped open on top of the dresser, but, if the past few hours were any indication, there was no hope of a relatively stable internet connection.

His toes brushed up against his backpack, which was resting on the floor against the foot of the mattress. He sighed and grasped one of its straps to hoist it off the ground. He unzipped the main pocket and spread its contents out on the bare mattress, figuring that now would probably be a good time to start unpacking. It had taken all of his remaining energy to slip off his shoes and close the blinds before collapsing on the bare mattress the previous night.

He gathered together his clothes first. He refolded three pairs of pants, three t-shirts, and pair of old sweatpants he liked to lounge around in. Not that he had plans to lounge anytime soon, but it was nice to know that the possibility was there. Along with a couple pairs of mismatched socks and his underwear, his whole wardrobe barely took up half of the available drawer space. He gently shut the drawer and made a mental reminder to scope out the laundry room.

He stretched a set of crisp white sheets over the edges of the mattress next. He folded up a plush grey blanket that had followed him through his college years and deposited it at end of the bed. He also unpacked a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a bottle of generic shampoo and set them on the bathroom counter.

The only thing left was to shower and eat breakfast. His backpack hung limply in his arms as he dug around in the front pocket for his standard fare of instant noodles. He sent up a silent prayer that the microwave in the kitchen would hold out for the required cooking time. He sat cross-legged on the floor of the empty living room and listened to the tread of feet in the apartment above him as he ate.

He showered quickly, not spending a moment longer than necessary under the feeble lukewarm stream of water that dribbled out of the shower head. He dressed quickly and then glanced at his watch as he threaded it around his wrist, noting that he had another fifteen minutes to spare before Joly’s return. He wandered back into the bedroom and ended up standing in front of a small mirror hung on the wall with a single rusty nail. He practiced saying Courfeyrac’s name a couple times, hoping all the while that he was remembering the pronunciation correctly.

The door to the apartment building swung shut behind him at precisely seven o’clock. As he was fastening his seat belt, Joly held a bright red scarf out over the center console, the material fluttering as the warm air blasting from the vents came into contact with it.

A blush crept up Combeferre’s neck when he noticed it. "Is it for me?”

“Of course it is!” Joly replied. “You're going to need it. We’ll be lucky if it’s over forty today.”

Combeferre thanked him and did not hesitate to loop it around his neck.

* * *

Day two at the clinic passed in a similar manner to day one. There was a steady flow of patients into and out of the building that started right when they unlocked the door at seven thirty. Cough drops and cough syrup were in high demand throughout the day. There were also several cases of food poisoning, all presenting the same symptoms, which made both of them fret about a contaminated ration shipment.

The hour hand of Combeferre’s watch was just approaching eleven when a young man with bright red hair rushed into the clinic. He couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. He cradled his right arm protectively over his chest and hastened to the waiting room desk.

Joly was kneeling down to hand out an orange lollipop to a little girl hiding behind her mother’s legs when the injured man hurried past him. Joly flashed a final smile at the child and straightened. He met Combeferre at the desk. “I’ll help you with this one,” he offered. He was already making a beeline to the box of latex gloves.

Combeferre snapped his own pair of gloves over his wrists as he led the patient to an unoccupied exam room.

“What’s your name?” Combeferre was asking as Joly nudged the door shut with his shoulder. He balanced a tube of antibiotic ointment and a container of bandages in his hand.

“Kyle,” he answered through clenched teeth.

Combeferre gave a single nod. “Alright, let's take a look at that arm," he said. "Would you mind taking a seat for me?"

The man edged up onto the examination table. The white paper covering rustled slightly as he made himself more comfortable. As soon as he was situated, he held his trembling arm out in front of him.

Both Joly and Combeferre hovered over the wound. It started at his wrist and spanned about three inches across his forearm. It was angry red, a sharp contrast to the rest of his pale skin. It was already showing signs of blistering.

“How did this happen?” Joly asked next.

Kyle’s eyes watered. He opened his mouth and a small choked noise escaped from his lips. His free hand gripped at the edge of the table, and he pulled himself together long enough to speak again. “Welder slipped,” he managed. “Already held it under cool water for a few minutes… Came here as soon as I could.”

Kyle inhaled sharply as Combeferre  pushed away the remaining scraps of his singed shirt. Combeferre shifted slightly so that he was closer to his forearm. He held the underside of the other man’s arm steady, while Joly applied the antibiotic cream.

“I want you to watch what I’m doing,” Joly said, drawing the man’s attention back down to his arm. He wrapped the strips gauze loosely around it and was careful not to pull too tight. “If it gets wet or torn, you might have to do this yourself."

“Or come back if you can, and we'll do it for you,” Combeferre offered.

As soon as Joly finished dressing the burn, Combeferre produced a small bottle of pain pills from his pocket and pressed them into the man’s free hand. Joly dug around in the container that he had deposited on the counter behind them and passed over extra packets of sterile gauze. The man dropped both items into his shirt pocket and thanked them profusely as they escorted him to the front door.  
  
Joly and Combeferre shared a smile and then turned their attention to the next patient.

* * *

When five o’clock rolled around, Joly was seated at the front desk, tackling a rather large pile of paperwork. His hand drifted across the page, but he was preoccupied with other thoughts.

Day two in the clinic had been enough to confirm his suspicions. More than anything, he was eager for him to go to the club, but he was so far removed in speculation about how the others would receive him that he barely heard Combeferre asking for permission to leave. 

Combeferre approached the desk and crossed his arms. “I think I’m going to head over now. If you don’t mind, that is,” he said. He scooped a couple of stray pens off the desktop. They rattled as he replaced them in a small plastic container situated near the phone.

Joly’s head snapped up. “It’s a long walk!” he protested. “Don’t you want me to drop you off? I’m almost -” he broke off and glanced at the stack of papers in front of him. He grimaced. “Well, it might be a while, but I don’t mind taking you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Combeferre was now wrapping his new scarf around his neck and zipping up his coat. “The fresh air will be good for me.”

Joly frowned. “It can’t be more than forty degrees. You’ll catch a cold by the time you make it over there,” he protested. He didn't want to run the risk of Combeferre falling ill. That was the last thing that either of them needed at the moment. 

“I’ll walk fast,” Combeferre promised. He was clearly ready to go and Joly did not want to delay him. He reached for a pad of sticky notes on the desk in front of him. He chewed on his bottom lip and scribbled down a short description of the quickest way to reach the club.

Combeferre stood still for a few minutes as he committed the information to memory. As soon as he felt prepared enough to depart, Joly reminded him to pull his scarf up over his ears. Combeferre waved goodbye and braced himself for the November chill before walking out the door.

Joly was still frowning. His cell phone was in his hand before the door swung shut behind Combeferre. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Courfeyrac’s number, and his fingers flew over the screen as he typed out a new message.  _He’s on the way._

His phone buzzed a few seconds later. _See you in ten._

_Make it twenty. He insisted on going by himself…_  He quickly sent off an additional message. _Courf??_

_Yes, Joly?_

_He likes green tea._

* * *

The wind rubbed Combeferre's cheeks raw within a manner of minutes. He burrowed further into his scarf and increased his pace.

Even though his eyes watered and his ears ached, he found that the combination of exercise and the sharp chill was invigorating. His eyelids had been growing heavy ever since treating the burn patient, but now, with the wind whistling in his ears, he was wide awake. He looked up and appreciated the clear sky, which was just beginning to redden with the sunset. 

He observed all the different buildings as he walked passed them. Most were whitewashed like the clinic, but there were some others constructed out of red brick, which made for an interesting visual combination. He found that his fondness for this little sea town, small and mismatched though it might have been, grew with each step he took.

He followed Joly’s instructions and arrived at the club within twenty minutes. He would have gotten there a few minutes sooner if he hadn’t been forced to wait for the crosswalk signal at a particularly long stoplight.

He rounded another corner and spotted another building constructed out of red brick. There were no signs posted on the outside to confirm or deny that he had the right place, but Combeferre was fairly confident that he had followed the directions correctly. He pushed open the door and was greeted by a burst of warm air. He stopped to hold his hands over the vent before venturing further inside.

It was a cheery, well-lit place. There was an L-shaped bar off to one side and a wall of booths on the other. Various circular tables were situated on the hardwood floor in the space between the booths and the bar. Just about every seat was currently occupied, and most everyone there wore versions of the same navy uniforms. Combeferre loitered in the entryway. The hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses wafted over to him.

Combeferre swallowed and inched forward a few steps. His scarf suddenly felt too tight against his throat.

A shorter man was crossing in front of him now, heading in the direction of the bar. Combeferre summoned his courage before reaching out and tapping him on the shoulder. “Excuse me?”

The other man turned around. The split-second look of confusion on his face was swiftly replaced with a smile. “Yes?”

He had a small build, but he held his head high. He had a coat draped over his arm, and he stood with his shoulders back. He had a smattering of freckles on his nose and forehead. A small piece of ginger hair had come free from his intricate braid and was curled near his temple. “What can I do for you?” he prompted. 

“I’m looking for, um…” He forgot the name of the man he was supposed to ask for. He was still blinking and trying to procure the name when another man approached and clapped him on the shoulder. They were just about the same height, though the other man might have had an inch on him. His face was framed by wavy brown hair and his hazel eyes were bright and eager.

“Combeferre?” he asked with an outstretched hand. “I’m Courfeyrac. And this is Jehan,” he said and inclined his head toward the person Combeferre had stopped. Jehan nodded in acknowledgement and continued on his way. Combeferre could have sworn that Jehan stole another look at him over his shoulder, but he wasn't sure if he'd only imagined it.  

“How did you know it was me?” Combeferre wondered.

Courfeyrac pointed to Combeferre’s chest. “It looks like our good friend Joly quite literally red-flagged you," he said. 

Courfeyrac glanced down at the red scarf now hanging loosely around his shoulders. He tugged it all the way off and said, “Yeah, I guess he did.”

“Come on in,” Courfeyrac said with a grin. His eyes flickered over Combeferre’s chapped cheeks. The tips of his nose and ears had turned bright red, as well. “Did you really walk all the way here? Jesus, you must be frozen.”

"Just a little," Combeferre admitted. He followed as Courfeyrac led the way to an unoccupied booth. He gestured for Combeferre to take a seat first.

“I’ll be right back,” Courfeyrac promised before retreating back behind the bar. He elected to observe Combeferre from afar as he finished preparing his cup of tea. He'd started to make it when he received Joly’s message, but it was only half-finished since he'd been distracted from finishing it by Jehan’s venting about the day’s work on the Wall.

Combeferre was only wide-eyed for a few more seconds. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He was examining a flyer in front of him when Courfeyrac returned to the booth with a glass and a mug.

“I’m sorry about the wait,” he said. He set the mug down in front of Combeferre and then scooted into the booth. 

“It’s really not a problem - ” He glanced down at the tea and had to clench his jaw a little to prevent it from falling open. “Is this Joly’s work, too?”

Courfeyrac merely smiled and crossed his arms. “So, tell me about yourself, Combeferre,” he said.

"Um. I’m new around here… I actually just got here yesterday, but you probably know that already," he said. He stopped to take a sip of his tea, trying to buy himself a few more seconds to frame his answer. "I graduated from medical school this past spring, and I came here as soon as I could.”

“And how old are you?” Courfeyrac continued.

“I’m going to be twenty-seven next month.”

“You're a liar," Courfeyrac shot back. "You don’t look a day over twenty one."

“Oh, I like you," Combeferre decided. “Can I ask you a question, though?”

Courfeyrac was glad to acquiesce. “Go for it.” 

“Do Jaeger pilots speak here often?” He gestured down at the flyer on the table. A large black and white sketch of a Jaeger was positioned above a small block of text. Combeferre had read it earlier, and it included an open invitation for the public to join them at the club for a question and answer session with the aforementioned Jaeger pilot. He was curious to know how they had the resources to arrange such a thing.

“Not as often as I'd like,” Courfeyrac admitted. “But I try to get them to come in when they can. I was lucky this time around because an old friend of mine from college works at the Anchorage Shatterdome now.”

“The people must love that,” Combeferre said next.

“They do.” Courfeyrac took a sip of his own drink, which looked like some kind of wine.

Combeferre sensed the unspoken edge to Courfeyrac’s previous comment. He debated with himself for a moment about whether or not it was his place to comment on it. “But?” he prodded.

“Three Jaegers have been destroyed in the past year,” Courfeyrac reported.

“Three?” Combeferre exclaimed. He checked himself and lowered the volume of his voice. “I didn’t know it was that bad."

Courfeyrac sighed. “No, the media does a good job about censoring that part.”

Their eyes met again, and Combeferre observed a certain twinge of sadness lurking in his eyes, shadows clinging to his otherwise brightened demeanor. 

“What’s a person to do?” Courfeyrac asked as he drummed his fingers against the table. “Especially when the Wall is unfinished, and we live so close to the ocean."

Combeferre leaned forward. “What _is_ a person to do about that?” he repeated.

Courfeyrac regarded him for a moment before asking, “Combeferre, why did you come out here?” His tone was more severe than Joly’s had been the previous day, but Combeferre was prepared for it this time. 

Combeferre met his gaze evenly. He kept his voice steady as he replied, “I came because I wanted to put my medical degree to good use.”

"As you should," Courfeyrac agreed. “But I was under the impression that doctors can live just about anywhere.”

“They can,” he said. “The element of choice is certainly a privilege for people in my profession.”

“So, why aren’t you choosing to put your degree to use in, say, Omaha?” he challenged.

“Because the Kaiju aren’t attacking Omaha," he reasoned.

“Well, not yet, anyway,” Courfeyrac allowed. He spoke grimly, but he rejoiced internally over the fact that Combeferre’s answer had just earned him an invitation into their group.

Combeferre relaxed in his seat. He sensed that he had said the right thing and passed Courfeyrac’s test.

“My friend…” Courfeyrac’s voice softened considerably. “You accepted a volunteer position only a few miles away from an unfinished stretch of the Wall. Do you want to know what that tells me about you?”

“I get the sense that you're going to tell me, regardless of how I answer," Combeferre mused. 

“I am," Courfeyrac confirmed. "It tells me that you’re incredibly brave.”

“I’ve actually been told numerous times that I’m just crazy,” Combeferre said. He had intended it as a joke, but Courfeyrac’s eyes widened, and his arm jerked out over the table. The sudden movement startled Combeferre. His heart was still pounding in his ears as Courfeyrac grasped his hand, mirroring what Joly had done the day before.

“No,” Courfeyrac said firmly. “You are _not_ crazy. We need you. And we need more people like you.”

Combeferre ducked his head and focused on the sight of their joined hands. “I just want to help,” he said quietly. It was addressed more to himself than to Courfeyrac.

“I know you do.” Courfeyrac squeezed his hand. As he was letting go, another man stumbled past their table. His curly black hair was sticking out in every direction, and the bags under his eyes told Combeferre that he probably hadn't slept in two days.

Courfeyrac turned to look at him. “Grantaire!” he called out to him with a wave. "Good timing!"

The man halted near their table and shrugged. "I guess there's a first time for everything." His fingers were wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. “What is it?”

“Have you seen Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asked as Grantaire took a swig of his drink.

“In the back room,” he said with a jerk of his thumb. He continued along on his way, and Combeferre’s eyes followed him as he dropped down into an empty booth on the other side of the room.

“Come with me,” Courfeyrac said as they both edged out of their booth. Combeferre noticed that, as they walked around the perimeter of the room, people smiled at Courfeyrac and made room for both of them to pass. He evidently was both well-known and well-loved. 

They continued on down a darkened hallway, which had a series of paintings framed and mounted on the walls. Combeferre sensed that they did not have time to linger, but he reminded himself to come back later and take a closer look at them.

Courfeyrac knocked twice on the door at the very end of the hall. An invitation to enter came from someone on the other side.

Courfeyrac paused to hold the door open for Combeferre. Combeferre was quick to notice a man sitting alone in the corner. His long blond hair was pulled back away from his face, and he wore the standard jumpsuit of a Wall worker. He said nothing, but he regarded Combeferre with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

Combeferre’s gaze shifted above Enjolras’ head, where there were various posters tacked to the wall. Various holes in the drywall betrayed the fact that they were tacked up and ripped down with frequency.

Combeferre took a step forward. Neither of them protested or made a move to cover the papers. He approached the wall, and he realized that he had been mistaken. Closer inspection revealed that the papers were not in fact posters but blueprints.

He muttered something indecipherable under his breath. Courfeyrac stood by his side and crossed his arms. He watched as the fervor mounted in Combeferre’s eyes. In a matter of seconds, a spark had transformed into a flame.

He spun around. “Is this even possible?” he asked the other two.

“With the right materials and the right people, yes,” Enjolras replied.

Combeferre turned back to the plans again. He kept walking until he was close enough to reach out and touch them. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to dispel some thought.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac inquired.

Combeferre was silent for a minute, trying to put the thought into words. “You don’t just have the plans.” He gestured at the wall with one hand. “There’s more to it than this.”

“You're right,” Courfeyrac said, wavering between concern and admiration. He wasn't sure if their plans were remarkably transparent or if Combeferre was just incredibly observant. 

Combeferre felt a little weak in the knees as the answer dawned on him. He couldn’t withhold his astonished laughter. It was probably not the response they anticipated, but he couldn't help it. “You’re building your own Jaeger, aren’t you?”

Combeferre turned back around one last time to face the other two. His eyes had taken on a strange intensity. He modified his previous statement slightly and tried again. "You have your own Jaeger hidden somewhere, don't you?"

Their continued silence was confirmation enough.

Enjolras rose to his feet and closed the distance between them. He glanced over Combeferre’s shoulder and locked eyes with Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac gave him a single nod, and his eyes focused back on Combeferre's face.

“Welcome to the Cause, my friend.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again dedicated to the lovely [ireallydontknowok](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ireallydontknowok/pseuds/ireallydontknowok). :) Warning: I took some liberties with the details of this universe.

“What's your name?” Enjolras inquired as he extended a hand toward Combeferre. Combeferre merely stared at the outstretched palm with pursed lips. A combination of apprehension and astonishment flashed in his eyes as he looked from Enjolras to Courfeyrac, who had side-stepped around him so that he could stand shoulder to shoulder with Enjolras. Courfeyrac returned his gaze evenly and entreated him with a barely discernible tilt of his head to accept the handshake.

“Name?” Enjolras repeated, more forcefully than the first time.

“It’s Combeferre,” he said before reluctantly clasping hands with the other man. He figured that, at the very least, there was no use in making an unfavorable first impression. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t aware that I was going to be joining anything tonight.”

“It’s alright,” Courfeyrac reassured him before reaching out and gripping his arm. He guided him over to the table where Enjolras had been sitting when they entered only minutes previously and indicated for him to take a seat. He pulled out his own chair next to Combeferre, while Enjolras situated himself on the opposite side.

Combeferre studied Enjolras and Courfeyrac again. Courfeyrac was dressed in street clothes, but Enjolras still wore the standard Wall worker apparel. The shirt was baggy around his chest and the sleeves were loose around his forearms.

The apprehension and astonishment had disappeared from Combeferre’s face. He had grown positively melancholy.

Enjolras leaned forward and flipped on a small desk lamp near the edge of the table. Courfeyrac watched closely as Combeferre, illuminated thus, suddenly began to look his age.

His eyes traced the downward curve of his shoulders, slumped from the burden of the past eight years. His pale skin and his red-rimmed eyes betrayed his dire need for rest. If they weren’t in such a vulnerable place in their current conversation, Courfeyrac would not have hesitated to bundle him back up in his red scarf and drag him to their apartment for some much-deserved sleep. But there was no time for that, as yet.

“What are you guys doing?” Combeferre asked quietly. He thought for a moment and then revised his statement. “What are you _trying_ to do?”

“We're trying to protect the people,” Enjolras replied solemnly.

“But there are other ways to do it,” Combeferre retorted. “The Jaeger Program is always searching for more pilots. Why not just apply there?”

It was Courfeyrac who answered this time. “They don't want pilots who come from our particular background." 

“What do you mean?”

“Can you name a single pilot who has come from the working classes?” Enjolras challenged as he crossed his arms. “Or even one who started out as a laborer on the Wall?”

Combeferre ran through the list of Jaeger pilots in his mind, flipping through each of them as though he was examining a deck of cards. He was only about halfway through when he started to feel a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I will spare you the trouble,” Enjolras said. “There are none.”

“Also, we have all tried to enlist and were rejected,” Courfeyrac added.

“But that can’t be the only reason that you’re doing this,” Combeferre continued. “It’s clear enough that the construction of the Wall isn’t going to be enough.”

“That’s one reason, yes, and a very important reason at that,” Courfeyrac allowed. “But remember how I was telling you earlier about the three Jaegers that have gone out of commission in the last month?”

“How could I forget?”

“We have a source on the inside who's informed us that the government is going to stop providing funds to replace the destroyed units,” Courfeyrac informed him.

Combeferre blinked a few times, unsure of how to respond. His mind drifted back to the mismatched buildings lined up along the cracked concrete of the sidewalk and how, no matter which way he turned, he could always discern the shell of the Wall looming in the distance. He recoiled as he thought about how a combination of metal and concrete might one day be their only defense against a three-hundred foot tall alien.

“A wall will not be enough,” Enjolras said simply. “It will be a temporary distraction at most.”

“The short version is that we see ourselves as a type of contingency plan,” Courfeyrac hastened to explain. “It takes some time to mobilize the Jaegers from any of the Shatterdome locations and then you have to add travel time to that. Well, what happens to us when there are only a handful of Shatterdomes left?”

“Because that _will_ happen when there aren’t enough Jaegers,” Enjolras inputted. “The government will also keep pushing the working classes to the coast and those who can afford to will retreat further inland.”

Courfeyrac took up his line of dialogue again. “And what if the Kaiju begin to attack more quickly? There's evidence to suggest that they’re evolving.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s inevitable,” Combeferre observed. The evolution of the Kaijus was something that he had been trying to avoid thinking about recently, as it severely impacted his sleep.

“More and more Jaegers are destroyed each year with no plans to replace them,” Courfeyrac reiterated. But he could see by the changing look on Combeferre’s face that he already understood everything. “We don’t want to find out what happens when there aren’t any left.”

“The government may be content with the Wall, but we are not,” Enjolras concluded. Combeferre gazed at him again and could see that some of his hair was coming loose from the rubber band he had used to pull it back. “It can and will be broken. We need a way to fight back.”

"But it’s not just for us, you see.” Courfeyrac turned to him with an inexplicably tender expression. “We want to do it so that we can protect every worker who risks his or her life by going to the upper levels of the Wall every day.”

“I understand,” Combeferre said. He lowered his voice before continuing. “You’re doing it so that parents can tuck their kids into bed and believe themselves when they say everything's going to be alright. 

Courfeyrac exhaled, his sense of relief palpable. “That’s exactly it,” he said as he relaxed against the back of his seat.

“It’s hard to believe that you were able to build one all by yourselves, though, especially without anyone picking up on it,” Combeferre said after another pause.

“It’s not perfect, of course,” Courfeyrac clarified. "We still don’t quite know how to configure the Drift properly. It’s been giving us a lot of trouble.”

“But we’re getting closer every day,” Enjolras said firmly.

“And add to that the fact that we haven’t decided who’s actually going to pilot it,” Courfeyrac said with a pointed glance toward Enjolras. “Nevertheless, you are welcome to join us, if you want. We certainly could use another talented doctor like yourself.”

“Oh, how do you even know that I’m talented?” Combeferre shot back. “I’ve only been here for two days. You hardly know anything about me.”

“Joly was quite taken with you from the start,” Courfeyrac replied with a shrug. “He wanted you in on it as soon as possible, and we trust his judgment. It is usually quite sound.”

“Also, we don’t have the luxury of time,” Enjolras said. “So, what will it be, then? Are you in?”

Combeferre felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he fixed his eyes on the blueprints directly over Enjolras’ head. Enjolras furrowed his brow slightly as he tried to decipher Combeferre’s expression.

“All of this that you’ve done?” Combeferre gestured toward the blueprints tacked onto the wall. “It’s absolutely brilliant. I'll join you.”

"Excellent!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, reaching over to clap Combeferre on the back. Enjolras said nothing, but his face was graced with a smile for the first time that night.

* * *

It took fifteen minutes to complete Combeferre’s initial briefing. Combeferre shook hands with Enjolras one last time before starting toward the door with Courfeyrac. Enjolras reached out and held Courfeyrac back with a single touch on his forearm.

“Go on, I’ll join you in a minute,” Courfeyrac said with a gesture to the door.

The door opened again and cast a small sliver of light into the otherwise darkened hallway. Combeferre couldn’t stop himself from smiling again as he saw Joly leaned up against the wall. He shut the door behind him and stuck his hands in his pockets as Joly pushed himself off the wall.

“Well?” he prompted. “He must have liked you if he brought you into the back room already. Did you meet Enjolras?”

“Yes, and I’ve joined the Cause,” Combeferre informed him. As soon as the words left his mouth, Joly launched himself toward Combeferre. He threw his arms around his neck, and Combeferre staggered backward in surprise. Combeferre lifted his arms to return the hug.

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day!” he exclaimed.

Combeferre laughed as Joly pulled away. “You really couldn’t have given me any warning beforehand?” he wondered.

“No… I thought that if I did, I might scare you away. I didn’t want to risk that,” Joly replied. “But I wouldn’t mind buying you a few drinks to make up for it.”

“I'm going to take you up on that,” Combeferre replied. A moment later, he wondered if he should feel guilty about the money Joly had spent on him in the past twenty four hours. 

“Well, come on, then,” Joly said as he held out his hand, but Combeferre hesitated.

“I’d love to, but I think I’m supposed to be waiting for Courfeyrac. He said he’d be out in a minute.”

“I see.” Joly let his hand drop back down to his side. “So, what do you think?”

“About?”

Joly shrugged and then rephrased his question. “Do you think we can do it?"

“Yes,” Combeferre said immediately. “I think that there’s a good chance that it will work.”

“But?” 

Combeferre glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the door was still  closed behind him. He chose his next words carefully. “I’m sensing there’s an issue with deciding who’s going to pilot it.”

"You’re quite perceptive, then," Joly said slowly. 

“Courfeyrac gave Enjolras quite the look when he reached that part of the explanation,” Combeferre explained. "That's the only reason I suspected it." 

Joly seemed amused by the admission. “Did he really? Well, I wouldn’t say it’s a problem, exactly, just a point of dispute. Enjolras wants to be the one pilot it, but we don’t know if anyone will be able to Drift with him. He’d gladly bear the full neural load himself, even if it kills him.”

“Ah,” Combeferre said. He was beginning to view their entire exchange in a new light. “And what does everyone else think about that?”

“We won’t hear of it, of course,” Joly replied. “But there is something else…”

This time it was Joly who turned to check over both shoulders. He edged closer to Combeferre and lowered his voice. “We might have stumbled on some plans for a three person Drift – “ He was cut off by the sound of the door swinging open. “Well, ask Courfeyrac about it,” he said quickly as he took a couple steps backwards.

“Well, you two don't look suspicious at all,” Courfeyrac said with lifted eyebrows. He turned to pull the door shut behind him and then walked over to them with crossed arms. “What is it you're asking me about?”

“A three person Drift?” Combeferre repeated slowly. He still hadn’t registered that Joly had stepped away and Courfeyrac had entered into the conversation. 

“Oh, that thing?” Courfeyrac said nonchalantly. “I’ll tell you more about it later, if you'd like. We have to go on a little field trip first.”

“A field trip? At this hour?” Joly asked for him. “What for?”

Courfeyrac held up his hands defensively and started to reply but Joly interrupted him. “Can’t you see how badly this man needs a drink?” he asked with an exasperated wave of his hands.

“I’m under orders,” Courfeyrac said apologetically. “Otherwise, I’d gladly buy him two.”

“It’s alright,” Combeferre assured them. “I don’t mind going. But maybe I can take you up on that drink tomorrow?”

“Or I can just get you something to go,” Joly said as they started walking down the hallway again.

* * *

Joly made sure to retie Combeferre's scarf and settle a thermos in his hands before allowing him to even think about leaving with Courfeyrac. As they headed toward the door, Combeferre noticed that a group had assembled in the corner were staring intently at him. He nudged Courfeyrac as soon as he noticed. Courfeyrac followed his gaze and lifted a hand in greeting.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you,” Courfeyrac said, while leading him over to the group. Courfeyrac rested an arm on the booth cushion, done so easily that Combeferre suspected that he'd done it many times before.

“It’s about time you showed up!” Combeferre recognized the person speaking as Jehan. Next to him was a man with the broadest shoulders that Combeferre had ever seen. His black hair was disheveled, and his olive skin seemed to glow in the low lighting of the club. He also wore the same Wall worker uniform as Enjolras.

Courfeyrac pointed to him and said, “That’s Bahorel. He does a variety of errands for us.”

That provoked a round of laughter. “Sure, that’s one name for them,” Bahorel said before taking a sip of his drink.

“And then across from him is Bossuet. He works with Enjolras on the Wall," Courfeyrac continued. He indicated a bald man with the biggest grin that Combeferre had ever seen. He directed his smile at Combeferre briefly, but it seemed as though he was trying to catch someone’s eye behind him.

“Let me introduce you to our newest recruit,” Courfeyrac said with a jerk of his head. “This is Combeferre.”

Combeferre shifted his weight from one foot to the other and felt the blood rushing to his cheeks as their eyes collectively swiveled over to him. He fiddled with the thermos in his hands.

Joly edged around him as the others scrutinized him. He squeezed himself into a spot next to Bossuet. “Combeferre works with me at the clinic,” he added in an attempt to redirect their attention. “I've already told you a thing or two about him.”

They shared a look with one another and scrambled for their glasses. In one somewhat synchronized movement, they raised their drinks in his general direction. Courfeyrac beamed at him, and he heard various intonations of “welcome” and “well done.”

He felt his eyes starting to burn, but he did manage to find the words to thank them. Courfeyrac said goodbye for both of them and steered him toward the doors.

“See? They don’t bite,” he teased as he stopped to hold the front door open for Combeferre. “Oh, you also saw Grantaire earlier, and I expect Feuilly is off at the warehouse. Otherwise, you’ve met all of us now.”

“So, there’s nine of us,” Combeferre observed as he burrowed further into his coat.

“That’s right.” Courfeyrac caught up with him and nudged him with his elbow. “The nine of us are going to change the world.”

A shiver ran down Combeferre’s spine, but he wasn’t sure if it was from what Courfeyrac had said or because the wind happened to pick up at the exact same moment.

“Where are we going, anyway?” he finally thought to ask.

“To the Wall,” Courfeyrac said simply. At seeing the reluctance that crossed Combeferre’s face he added, “Don’t worry, the Kaiju was killed late last night.”

“And the Jaeger?”

Courfeyrac frowned. “Completely destroyed. Now, let’s get going so I can get you home at a reasonable hour.”

* * *

They were silent the short ride out to the Wall. They parked Courfeyrac’s battered van in one of the empty lots and made the trek to the construction site. They passed the building that housed the employee lockers and then passed through to the Wall itself. All around them were endless rows of scaffolding and metal framework. Combeferre had to tilt his head all the way back in order to see to the top of the Wall. All of the sudden he felt impossibly small.

Combeferre stayed close to Courfeyrac and observed everything with wide eyes. Courfeyrac noticed that he kept peering over his shoulder as if he was expecting to see someone.

“Do you think we're going to get in trouble?” Courfeyrac finally asked. They had not encountered a single person in the five minutes that they had been walking. “No one's here, I promise.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Combeferre said. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth.

“Relax,” Courfeyrac entreated him. “I promise you that the authorities don’t care about people coming in after hours. That should tell you something.”

“What, that we do it at our own risk?” Combeferre asked as he crossed his arms tighter over his chest.

“Yes. They don’t care," he repeated. "Now, come on, we have some climbing to do.”

“Climbing?” Combeferre echoed as he slowed his pace.

“Just a little bit,” Courfeyrac promised. “It’s worth it.”

Courfeyrac procured a flashlight out of his coat pocket and circled around a nearby piece of scaffolding. He pointed the beam up and squinted slightly before deciding he had the right place.

He pulled himself up onto the scaffolding and then turned around to give Combeferre a hand up. They ascended about ten levels and had to edge onto a different set of scaffolding before they encountered a hidden passageway. Courfeyrac had to tear down a thick plastic tarp in order to reveal the entrance. As Courfeyrac directed his flashlight toward the opening, Combeferre could see the walls of a tunnel that cut straight through to the other side of the Wall. The ocean was visible in the distance.

“Follow me,” Courfeyrac whispered as he led the way through the makeshift tunnel. They emerged on the other side, and Combeferre breathed a sigh of relief as the breeze coming off of the water pushed the hair away from his face.

Courfeyrac walked all the way to the edge of the Wall and sat down carefully. Combeferre followed suit and looked down at his feet dangling above the ground. He shifted his gaze out to the ocean instead.

“Jehan showed me this place last week,” Courfeyrac said. “I find it quite calming.”

Combeferre hummed in agreement. He was grateful that the Wall blocked the worst of the wind up here. The ebb and flow of the ocean intermingled with the sound of his pulse in his ears, and he found that his breathing gradually steadied. He took a few deep breaths and unclenched his jaw.

"Is this the field trip that Enjolras had in mind?" Combeferre asked.

“Not quite, but I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into first,” Courfeyrac said. “And it’s pretty hard to do that with all those people watching you.”

“It's a little overwhelming,” Combeferre admitted.

“I understand. I can answer any of your questions, or I can just be here for moral support. You tell me what you need.”

“Tell me a little bit about the three person Drift?” Combeferre pleaded. He was staring at the full moon now.

“I should have guessed you’d ask about that,” Courfeyrac said. He leaned back and placed both of his palms on the concrete to support him. “You didn’t meet him tonight, but Feuilly is the man behind most of the building. He was doing some serious hacking into the government files about two weeks ago and happened on a plan for it completely by chance. We’ve accessed it a couple times since then, but it’s only a prototype.”

“Would it work like a regular Jaeger? But just with three people instead of two?”

“Yes. There would be three rigs in the head, and the Drift would be divided among the three pilots.”

Combeferre exhaled, his breath hovering in puffs in front of his parted lips. “That’s fascinating.”

“I agree,” Courfeyrac said with a nod. “The problem is that we don’t quite know how to set up a two person Drift, much less one intended for three people.”

“And I suppose that brings up issues with the construction because the Jaeger machinery would have to be designed with the extra person in mind.”

“You catch on fast,” Courfeyrac observed. “I’ll just say that it’s been a point of heated discussion for over a week now. Like I said earlier, we don’t know who’s going to pilot it.”

“I suppose that makes configuring the Drift itself difficult, too.”

“Extremely difficult,” Courfeyrac agreed. “We’re going to have to get everyone together and combine them until we figure something out.”

“Do you have any guesses about who’s going to work together?” Combeferre didn’t know the group well enough to make any of his own predictions, but, at observing the crease that had appeared between Courfeyrac's eyebrows, he figured that the other man might welcome the chance to brainstorm.

“I think Joly and Bossuet might definitely be in the running,” he said immediately. “Jehan and I might work. But it’s not only about the mental connection, as I’m sure you probably know. There’s the physical component, too, which makes it hard to say anything more until we see everyone spar together.”

“What about Enjolras?” Combeferre asked. He adjusted his position and drew his legs up so that his chin rested on his knees. He locked his arms around his shins and asked, “Who do you think he’d Drift well with?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Courfeyrac answered. “Maybe you’ll be able to help us out there.”

“Me? I'm not so sure about that."

“Why not? You’re in the group now, so you can spar, if you want." 

“I’m just a doctor,” Combeferre protested. "I don't know the first thing about Jaegers."

“We would teach you everything you'd need to know, of course, but you don’t have to decide anything tonight," Courfeyrac clarified. "I only wanted to make sure you know that you can try.”

Combeferre tightened his grip around his legs. “I’ll think about it."

“Alright."

"Hey, do you think we'd be good co-pilots?" Combeferre wondered after a moment.

"Perhaps." Courfeyrac shrugged, and the two lapsed into a comfortable silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again dedicated to ireallydontknowok. Happy reading! :)

Combeferre closed his eyes and listened to the rhythm of the ocean. The throbbing of the blood pounding in his ears mingled with the crash of the waves against the jagged rocks below them. He forced himself to keep taking deep breaths.

A knot of anxiety twisted around in his stomach, gnawing at his insides and demanding to be acknowledged. An image of Courfeyrac and Enjolras hooked into a Jaeger rig flashed before his eyes. He could sense the vibration of the heavy metal feet against the ground as if the Jaeger was in operation somewhere nearby. But that was nothing compared to the accompanying image of the colossal Kaiju rising from the depths of the Pacific.

Courfeyrac sat beside him, motionless and silent. He was watching the full moon with his head tilted off to one side, evidently contemplating something. He glanced up at the clouds building in the sky and frowned as the first droplet of rain splattered against the tip of his nose.

“Looks like we’re going to get rained out,” Courfeyrac said with an audible sigh. He offered Combeferre a hand up and then flicked the flashlight back on. The beam of light cut across the darkness and guided their path back to the other side of the Wall.

When they emerged on the other side of the passageway, the rainfall had escalated from a drizzle to a torrential downpour. After hastily replacing the plastic tarp over the entrance, both Combeferre and Courfeyrac flipped up their hoods and buried down deeper into their jackets to avoid the piercing rain. But despite their best efforts, the rain seeped into their clothes and wrapped its icy fingers around their limbs.

"Almost there!" Courfeyrac yelled as they dropped down onto the final scaffolding. "Here! You first!" He knelt down near the edge of the scaffolding and angled the flashlight to help illuminate Combeferre’s course down the final ladder.

Combeferre mounted the ladder and cried out as his foot slipped. He dangled in the air for only a moment before his fingers began to lose their grip on the slick metal rung. He was looking down to gauge the distance of his impending fall when he felt Courfeyrac’s hand wrap tightly around his wrist to steady it.

“I’ve got you!” Courfeyrac called down.

Combeferre leaned his head back and smiled gratefully, even though he was not sure if Courfeyrac could actually see it through the sheets of rain cascading around them.

Courfeyrac clutched the edge of the wooden scaffolding until his knuckles turned white to help with his own balance. He waited for Combeferre’s feet to swing back onto the ladder and for his other hand to regain its purchase on the rung. As soon as he was satisfied that Combeferre was out of danger, he released his grip and allowed him to complete his descent.

Courfeyrac balanced the flashlight between his chin and his neck as he navigated his way back down. When Courfeyrac was safely on the ground, Combeferre said, “Thanks for that!” He had to raise his voice to almost a shout in order to be heard over the din of the rainfall.

“I don’t think Enjolras would be happy if I let you fall on your first night!” Courfeyrac shouted back. “Let’s get out of here!” he said as they both took off at a jog toward the parking lot.

By the time they returned to the van, they were both soaked to the skin, and their hair was plastered flat against their temples.

“Bet you weren’t expecting that, were you?” Courfeyrac asked.

“If I wasn’t awake before, I definitely am now,” Combeferre admitted. A drop of icy water made a trail down the back of his neck, and he reached back to rub it away with his palm.

Courfeyrac leaned over and flipped the dial for the heat, turning both dials up to their highest setting. Lukewarm air flowed feebly through the vents.

“Ah, I’m sorry. It takes a minute to warm up,” he said, sounding nearly identical to Joly two days earlier. Courfeyrac angled the flow of air in Combeferre’s general direction. “Hang in there for just a little bit longer.”

“I’m fine,” Combeferre assured him. A shiver snaked down his spine, and he had to clench his teeth to suppress the sound of his teeth chattering.

“Looks like we can’t do that other errand now,” Courfeyrac said with a twinge of regret. “But not even our fearless leader can control the weather.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand," Combeferre managed.

The air was slightly warmer now. He unclenched his fists and began to drum his fingers against his thigh instead. “Courfeyrac?”

“Yes?”

“Would it be too much trouble to make a stop back at the clinic?” he inquired.

“Of course not,” Courfeyrac said. He glanced into his rearview mirror and then flipped a U-turn at the next intersection. “I love detours,” he said. He shot a smile at Combeferre over the center console.

They were close enough to see the back of the clinic now. Combeferre grimaced as something occurred to him. He didn’t have a key to unlock the door. He opened his mouth to voice his concern, but, when Courfeyrac turned around the corner, he saw that a single light was flipped on inside. The words died away on his tongue, and he shut his mouth.

“I guess we weren’t the only ones who decided to come back,” Courfeyrac observed as he pulled up right next to the curb.

“I’ll be quick, I promise,” Combeferre said as his fingers curled around the handle of the car door.

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere without you,” Courfeyrac said. He fiddled with the dials again, with a vague hope of coaxing out warmer air, before settling back against the car seat.

Combeferre looked back over his shoulder about half way to the clinic. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask Courfeyrac one last time if this stop was alright with him. Courfeyrac gave him an encouraging smile.

Combeferre knocked twice on the door, more out of warning than out of an expectation that someone would answer it. He tested the door and was not surprised to find it unlocked.

The hinges groaned as the door shut behind him. His wet sneakers squeaked against the tile flooring as he called out a tentative, “Hello?”

He heard a series of boxes crash to the ground.

“In the store room!” came the response.

Combeferre adjusted his path accordingly. He edged around the front desk and pushed open the door leading to the supply room. Joly was kneeling down to scoop up packets of displaced of bandages as Combeferre crossed the threshold.

His eyes automatically locked on the bald man he had seen earlier at the club perched up on a section of the linoleum counter top. He noticed the other man’s flushed face and Joly’s tousled brown hair and his eyes widened in shock.

“Did I interrupt something?” he asked quickly. “I’m so sorry! I’ll leave -”

“It’s fine, Combeferre,” Joly interrupted. He moved to deposit the bandages in his hands back into the open cardboard box on the counter. “I was just showing our friend Bossuet here the things that we’re lacking from our inventory. As you’ve no doubt noticed by now, the government doesn’t supply us adequately.”

Bossuet cleared his throat and then nodded toward the metal shelves on the opposite wall. “Bahorel can help replace your store of bandages and stitching material, but I’m afraid that the rubbing alcohol and antibiotics will be a little harder to come by,” he explained.

“And where do you get them from?” Combeferre ventured to ask.

“It’s probably better for you not to know,” Bossuet said warily. “Just in case a run goes wrong and all.”

“Fair enough,” Combeferre shrugged. He hadn’t actually been expecting an answer.

Joly’s eyes widened as he registered the sight of Combeferre’s damp clothing, and he jumped into action. “How long were you out in the rain?” He said as he fussed over him. “You must be frozen!” His hands were a blur of movement as he dug around a large box propped up against the wall. He pulled out two dark blue blankets. He tucked one by his side and offered the other one out to Combeferre.

“Here, take it before you catch a cold. Now, what is it that you came back for?" Joly inquired.

“Apart from a warm shower and a change of clothes,” Bossuet chimed in.

“I was actually wondering if we had any spare paper around here,” Combeferre said as he accepted the blanket and draped it around his shoulders.

“Paper? What for?” Bossuet wondered. Joly turned to smack him on the arm with the back of his hand.

“I’m sure he has a good reason for asking,” Joly said as he flashed an apologetic smile at Combeferre. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.”

“It’s a fair question,” Combeferre said. He felt a blush begin to creep up his neck. “I understand things better when I can write them out and draw them… And I’m trying to understand your Jaeger so I thought maybe some paper would help?” He stopped short of telling Joly he had been trying to envision a rig intended for three people all night and felt a dire need to sketch it.

“Of course!” Joly exclaimed. He regarded Combeferre for a moment before saying, “There should be some in the bottom right drawer in the front desk. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something useful in there.”

“Great, thank you,” Combeferre replied.

“It's  _our_ Jaeger, by the way,” Bossuet corrected.

"Right! Sorry about that," Combeferre mumbled an apology and then raised his eyebrows as Joly held out the other blanket to him.

“I’m sure Courfeyrac is frozen, too,” Joly said. “And there should be an umbrella tucked back behind the coat rack.”

“You’re the best Joly, you know that?” Combeferre said as he accepted the extra blanket. 

“Oh, he knows,” Bossuet said. He threw his head back and laughed as Joly’s fingers tightened around his knee.

“I hope you have a good rest of your evening,” Combeferre said to both of them as he backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

He dug out a handful of blank white paper from the desk drawer and grabbed the umbrella from behind the coat rack in the corner of the waiting room. He shrugged the blanket off and wrapped it protectively around the paper. He clutched the bundle to his chest as he flipped open the umbrella. He angled it over his head in preparation for the walk back to the car.

“Did you get what you needed?” Courfeyrac asked as Combeferre jumped into his seat and wrestled with the umbrella. 

“You found a blanket,” he observed. “Good for you.”

“Don’t worry, I have one for you, too,” Combeferre said. He deposited the extra one on the center console and finished retracting the umbrella. 

"Bless you," Courfeyrac said sincerely as his fingers closed around the soft blue material.

* * *

“Give me your phone, would you?” Courfeyrac said as he pulled up to Combeferre’s apartment building. He threw the car into park and clicked off the headlights.

Combeferre pulled it out of his pocket and passed it over without protest. Courfeyrac’s fingers flew over the buttons as he typed in a series of digits.

“There,” he said as soon as he was satisfied with his work. He angled the screen so that Combeferre could see his list of contacts, now increased to four from his original two numbers. “Now you have both my number and Joly’s. I would give you Enjolras’ but he doesn’t carry a cell phone.”

"He doesn’t?"

"No, he just ends up losing it whenever we give him one.”

“That must be frustrating.”

“Very, but we make do,” Courfeyrac said with a shrug.

Courfeyrac replaced the phone in Combeferre’s outstretched hand as he said, “Thanks for everything, Courfeyrac. I’m really glad that I joined the Cause tonight.”

“I am, too,” Courfeyrac said. “And it’s no problem at all. I hope you’ll come back to the club soon. I mean, I wouldn’t mind seeing you there again.”

“The pilot is speaking tomorrow night, isn’t she?” Combeferre asked, even though he'd already memorized the information printed on the flier he had been examining earlier.

“She is, indeed,” Courfeyrac confirmed.

“I’ll be there, then,” he said.

“Great. Your tea will be waiting for you,” Courfeyrac said with a small smile. "Or text me if you change your mind." 

"Sounds good." Combeferre’s face brightened. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yep. I think we've established that we'll be seeing each other tomorrow." 

Courfeyrac watched as Combeferre jogged toward the door with the blanket pressed flat against his chest. It was only then he realized that Combeferre had tucked the umbrella away in the space in between the passenger seat and the center console instead of saving it for himself.

Courfeyrac hadn’t even driven a full mile away from the building when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He glanced down at the unknown number on the screen before answering it. “Hello?”

“It’s just me.” Combeferre said, by way of greeting. He flipped on a light in the kitchen and grinned as he heard Courfeyrac’s laugh echo through the line.

“Hello again,” he said. “Are you okay?"

"Yes. Fine." Combeferre fumbled around for an excuse. “I was, uh, just making sure that it works." 

"Well, you got your answer."

"I guess I did."

"Seriously, though, call me if you need anything. We have to look out for each other, after all."

“Alright. I will,” Combeferre nodded, forgetting for a moment that Courfeyrac could not in fact see him. “Good night, Courfeyrac.”

“Good night, Combeferre.”

* * *

Combeferre was digging around in the supply closet the next morning for an extra packet of disinfecting wipes when a sharp rap cut across the silence of the room. He straightened slowly as the knock came again, three times in quick succession.

Combeferre had been quite unaware of the existence of the back door to the clinic. He edged his hands around on the drywall until his fingers brushed against a silver doorknob.

“Uh, hello?” he said as he cracked the door open a couple of inches. “Can I help you?”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Combeferre. “You must be the new guy,” he said gruffly. He crossed his arms in front of him and pursed his lips together.

It only took a moment for Combeferre to place the man. He remembered seeing the head of curly brown hair, which looked like it hadn’t been touched by a comb in months, at the club the previous night. Combeferre’s eyes drifted over his baggy jeans, worn at the knees and frayed along the edges, and his red t-shirt, which was the slightest bit too small to accommodate the broadness of his chest.

“Well, what are you just standing there for?” he asked, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Go get Joly and tell him we have a code red.” Combeferre watched as he took a step back and leaned against the wall. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and grimaced. He swore under his breath when he couldn’t locate a lighter in his back pocket.

Combeferre disappeared momentarily and then reopened the door, propping it open with his foot.

Grantaire kicked himself off the wall. “That was fast - ” he started to say.

“Here,” Combeferre said, offering out a small red box of matches. “Hopefully that will do.”

Grantaire accepted the offering as Combeferre disappeared again back into the clinic.

Combeferre headed straight to the patient examination room, where he had seen Joly and Bossuet enter when he was on his way to the store room. He heard their voices drifting out of the first examination room. He leaned up against the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt them yet again.

This time, Bousset was perched on the exam table, and Joly was smoothing a think bandage over a jagged cut on his forearm.

“It’s only nine in the morning and you’re hurt already,” Joly said. “You really shouldn’t be working on the Wall.”

“What choice do I have?” Bossuet replied. “And you know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter what time of day it is… I’m always unlucky.”

“That might be the case, but I worry about you. I mean, I’d rather you go a little longer than twelve hours before hurting yourself again.”

“I will try,” Bossuet said, ducking his head. “But I can’t make any promises. I seem to have a talent for finding all the places with exposed metal on the Wall.”

"I suppose that means I will have to keep taking care of you, then,” Joly said. His thumb stroked the inside of Bossuet’s forearm.

Combeferre coughed from his place in the doorway.

“You have impeccable timing, my friend,” Joly said with a smile.

“There’s a man at the back door who says he has a code red?” Combeferre repeated slowly.   
  
Joly finished smoothing the corners of Bossuet's bandage and then stepped aside so he could hop down off the table. "I'm pretty sure he just made that up," Joly decided. 

"Not very original," Bossuet agreed. They took off toward the supply room with Combeferre trailing along on their heels. Joly nudged a couple of cardboard boxes out of the way with his foot and threw open the door all the way.

“Grantaire!” he exclaimed. “I never thought I would see you out of bed this early in the morning.”

“That makes two of us, then,” Grantaire replied with a shrug. He was just finishing off his cigarette. “But this one was too good to pass up.”

“Well, what do you have for us?” 

“It’s a narcotic and a pretty rare one at that,” Grantaire explained, pulling a small white bottle out of his coat pocket. “I thought you might appreciate having it around here.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you got it,” Joly said as Grantaire passed over the bottle. “But I’m grateful for it all the same. Thank you, Grantaire.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said as he extinguished his cigarette against the nearest wall. His eyes lingered on the bottle for another moment.

“Will we see you later tonight at the club?” Bossuet asked, hovering over Joly’s shoulder.

“Most likely,” Grantaire shrugged and began to trudge down the sidewalk. He didn’t turn back around again, but he lifted a hand over his shoulder in farewell.

As soon as the door was securely shut and locked behind them, Combeferre asked, “Does he come by here often?”

“No. But when he does, it’s usually for a good reason,” Joly replied. “He’s one of the best runners we have.”

* * *

Joly and Combeferre walked shoulder to shoulder from the parking lot to the sidewalk that curved around the outside of the club. They were a little late, owing to the fact that a woman had come in with a gash spurting blood just as the clinic was about to close.

They made their way inside, greeted again by the familiar current of warm air from the heating ducts, and took a moment to orient themselves.

The club was almost full to capacity with people. Excitement permeated the air, and the buzz of friendly conversation drifted about the room. Combeferre and Joly edged around groups of people clinking their drinks together and people hugging each other, and searched for a place to sit down.

Joly saw Courfeyrac approaching out of the corner of his eye, and Combeferre looked up just as he reached them. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders in friendly greeting.

“Everything alright today?” he asked with a grin. "It's good to see both of you." His gaze lingered on Combeferre’s face a little bit longer than was strictly necessary.

“Yes. We would have been here sooner, but we got held up at the clinic,” Joly explained.

“Don’t worry,” Courfeyrac said. “I saved a booth for you. Enjolras is over there, too.”

Joly and Combeferre made a move to leave. Courfeyrac reached out and squeezed Combeferre’s forearm, right underneath the elbow. “Hey, try to enjoy yourself tonight, alright?” he said.

“I will,” Combeferre assured him. They made their way over to the table that Courfeyrac had pointed out to them. Enjolras nodded in acknowledgement and wordlessly passed over a steaming red ceramic mug to Combeferre and a beer bottle for Joly.

Combeferre took a moment to catch his breath and to gauge his surroundings. A majority of the people were clad in the standard jumpsuits of the Wall workers. Most of them clutched plastic ration containers in their hands, having come directly from their shift and accompanying food distribution. He noticed their shabby clothing and felt a pang in his chest as he realized that hardly anyone was dressed properly for the harsh November chill. Jackets and windbreakers were common but large winter coats were a commodity. Of the two that Combeferre spotted, both were bundled around children younger than ten years of age. The people pressed as close to the stage as possible and waited eagerly for the pilot to take her place behind the single microphone stand.

“You know Courfeyrac already,” Enjolras started to say. Combeferre’s eyes locked in on Courfeyrac, who was smiling and paying close attention to the conversation transpiring in front of him. “Making sure events like these happen is entirely his work."

“Grantaire is the one pouring the drinks,” Enjolras continued. Combeferre forced himself to follow Enjolras' narration. He saw the same man that had come to the back door of the clinic earlier leaned up against the edge of the bar. He had since thrown on an oversized grey sweatshirt, but the same red t-shirt still peeked out from underneath it.

“And a little bit to his left is Jehan,” Enjolras observed. The man with the ginger hair was crouched down and playing some sort of clapping hand game with two little boys.

“I’m not sure where Bahorel disappeared to," Enjolras said with a frown. “But he’s the tallest one here. You won’t be able to miss him when he comes back.”

Combeferre jumped as the sharp sound of microphone feedback sounded through the room. The pilot winced and tapped the microphone a few times until the high-pitched noise died down. A hush fell over the crowd, and they instinctively pressed closer around the stage.

“Well, hello, everybody,” she greeted. She wore a long sleeved red shirt, emblazoned with the symbol of the Jaeger program on the breast pocket, and black dress pants. She brushed a stray piece of brunette hair away from her hazel eyes and smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she did so. “I hope everyone’s staying warm tonight.”

There was a bout of laughter from the people in the room. Combeferre’s eyes flickered over the smiling faces of those in the audience. Some people had moved closer together in order to clasp hands while others draped their arms around their children. He spotted Courfeyrac right in the middle of the crowd with a little girl perched on his shoulders.

“My name is Eponine,” she said in introduction. “And I’m here to answer any questions you might have about Jaeger pilots.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to [Una](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ireallydontknowok) and [ Jenny](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK). Both of them encourage me to keep going with this, so thank you very much for that!
> 
> Happy reading! :)

Eponine twisted the microphone around in her hands as she waited for the first question.

An older woman with black hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head raised her hand first. Her hazel eyes darted around the room as people shifted to get a better look at her.

“Yes?” Eponine nodded at her a couple of times in encouragement. She wretched the microphone out of its stand and took two strides to the very edge of the makeshift stage, elevated a only couple of feet off the ground to ensure that she was visible from the back of the club. Her polished black shoes glowed in beam of the single spotlight focused on her.

The woman crossed her arms. “I’ve always wondered how long it takes to be a pilot?”

“That’s an excellent question! I’m glad you asked,” Eponine said. “Training varies depending on the person. As you probably already know, you can’t successfully pilot a Jaeger alone, so most of the training and how quickly you progress through it depends on how fast you can find someone who’s Drift-compatible with you. It took me a little more than a year to complete everything.”

The hand of a man with fading grey hair was the next to shoot up. “Has anyone ever tried to pilot one of those things by themselves?” he called out.

“Yes,” Eponine said with an audible sigh. She ran her free hand through her hair once before dropping it back down to her side. “But Jaegers were never meant to be piloted alone. It can kill you if you’re hooked up to it for too long.”

Combeferre tore his attention away from the pilot as he heard a muffled whisper drift over from Joly’s side of the table.

“Hear that, Enjolras?” Joly said. He took a sip of his drink before continuing. “Even the professionals say you can’t do it all by yourself.”

“I’m not planning to,” Enjolras replied without removing his eyes from the pilot. One of his fingers traced the rim of the glass in front of him. His other arm was draped across his stomach.

“How many Jaeger pilots are there?” someone asked next. Combeferre glanced around but wasn’t able to locate the source of the question.  
  
Apparently he wasn’t the only one, judging by Eponine’s choice to address the answer to the group as a whole. “Right now, there are sixty Jaeger pilots working in eight Shatterdomes around the world,” she recited.

Combeferre didn’t fail to notice the keen look exchanged between Joly and Enjolras at this piece of information.

“How big are the Jaegers?” a timid voice called out from one of the back corners. The question came from a little boy, no more than ten years old, who was being help up in his father’s arms.

“They’re huge!” Eponine answered with a sweeping gesture of her hands. The light danced in her eyes as she shot a grin at him. “They’re over three hundred feet tall.”

This factoid provoked an excited outburst of chatter. A group of men standing close to the booth where Combeferre was sitting immediately turned to confer with each other. One man with dark brown hair gripped the forearm of another with chestnut locks falling across his high forehead.

“How tall is the Wall?” he asked gruffly. He paused to cough a few times before continuing. “We must be getting pretty close to a hundred feet by now.”

“I think we reached a hundred feet last week,” the other man replied. The people surrounding them hummed in agreement.

Combeferre watched next as Courfeyrac caught Eponine’s attention with a raised hand from his place right in the center of the crowd. She lifted her eyebrows as he gestured to the small child sitting on his shoulders.

“Hold on, everyone. I think we have one more question,” Eponine said. The extraneous conversations faded away, which allowed the child’s voice to be heard clearly.

“Are you going to kill all the monsters?” she asked with wide eyes.

Combeferre’s eyes flickered over the visible slump in Courfeyrac’s shoulders, provoked by the pure innocence of the child’s question. He looked next at a young mother who was standing close to him. She involuntarily tightened her grip around the shoulders of her own daughter.

Everyone seemed to press closer to the stage in the moment it took for Eponine to answer.

She took a deep breath and rearranged her expression into one of unmistakable tenderness. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “Don't you worry, sweetheart. I’m going to kill _all_ the monsters.”

The room erupted into fervent applause and wild cheering. The group of men standing near their booth threw their arms around each other as soon as her last words rang out over the crowd.

Eponine ducked her head and lowered the microphone as the noise of the people soared to a higher pitch. A new current of energy animated the room. Everywhere in the club, people hugged their neighbors and planted kisses on their cheeks. Mothers and fathers, too, drew squealing children into their arms and pressed their chapped lips to warm foreheads.

Combeferre felt cool fingers wrap around the hand he had rested along the edge of the table. He locked eyes with Enjolras, who posed a silent question to him. Combeferre nodded once and scooted out of the booth, the material squeaking as the back of his thighs rubbed up against it.

He side-stepped away from the booth to allow Enjolras to squeeze past him. Combeferre followed silently on his heels as Enjolras edged his way through the crowd of people.

Now that Combeferre was right in the center of the crowd, he found that their energy was contagious. It was as if they all suddenly had a single heartbeat, pounding wildly in response to Eponine’s vow. Courfeyrac’s conviction from the night before echoed somewhere in the back of his mind in a hollow reply.

Combeferre couldn’t resist shooting a smile at everyone they passed as they made their way through the mass of people and toward the hallway branching off to the back room. The conversation faded into a dull humming noise as the two of them retreated further down the hall. Combeferre felt the smile gradually disappear from his face. His heightened pulse, left over from the burst of adrenaline, still throbbed in his ears.

Enjolras crossed the threshold first, leaving Combeferre to follow in his footsteps.

“Grantaire? Is that you?” Enjolras said, moving away as Combeferre eased the door shut behind him. “What are you doing?”

Dusty blue curtains were drawn back away from a single windowpane, through which the light of the full moon spilled into the room. Grantaire had drawn a chair away from a nearby table and was sitting off to the side of the window. He had his arms crossed and was slumped in the chair.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras repeated.

Grantaire blinked but did not draw his gaze away from where it was focused somewhere beyond the dirty glass.

“Please let me stay,” he pleaded. “I won’t bother you.”

Enjolras tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. He took a couple steps forward and was now himself illuminated by the moonlight.

“You hardly ever come back here,” Enjolras said. “Did something go wrong?”

“They don’t have sixty pilots, do they?” Grantaire asked instead. Combeferre fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket as the mental calculations he had done earlier resurfaced in his mind.

Grantaire was shrouded in darkness and only the outline of his figure was visible. Combeferre could not be entirely certain if he was crying or not, but he had a strong feeling that he might have been. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked from Grantaire’s shadow back to Enjolras.

“You already know that they don’t,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire wilted. His head slumped down, hanging like a heavy weight over his chest. Enjolras made a move as if he meant to step closer to him, but he hesitated at the last minute.

Instead, Enjolras turned and pulled out his own chair with one hand, dragging it out hard enough that the legs scraped against the hardwood flooring. Combeferre figured it was safe to join him now.

He observed Enjolras’ arm again, which was cradled protectively against his stomach. His face was still angled towards where Grantaire was sitting in the corner.

Enjolras finally tore his gaze away from Grantaire. “What did you think?” Enjolras inquired at last.

Combeferre immediately sensed that he was being given another test. He blinked and adjusted his glasses out of habit as he considered his response. “I think it’s very inspiring," he said. "And I also think that everyone feels a little bit better now that they know someone is fighting on their side.”

Enjolras nodded in agreement. “And why do you think that Courfeyrac is always so determined to bring pilots in here?” he asked next.

This time Combeferre did not hesitate. “Hope,” he intoned clearly. “Hope that we all can still be saved yet.”

“Do you agree with him?” Grantaire cut in. He moved from where he was sitting in the corner and joined them at the table. He dropped down into the empty seat next to Combeferre.

Combeferre hesitated, unsure of whether or not it was a trick question. “What do you mean?”

“Are they worth saving?” Grantaire asked. "Am I worth saving?" he persisted.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras warned from the other side of the table.

"Yes." Combeferre sensed the undercurrents running beneath the surface of his question. He turned in his chair so that he could see Grantaire as clearly as he possibly could by the light of the moon. Grantaire had his teeth clamped down on his bottom lip, but he returned Combeferre’s look evenly. “Even if you do not believe it yourself yet. The answer to that question is always an unequivocal yes."

“Good answer,” Grantaire said, evidently satisfied.

Enjolras drummed the fingers of one hand against the surface of the table. “Grantaire, would you bring over the blueprints?”

Combeferre heard a slight rustling of fabric as Grantaire pulled himself up out of his chair. Only the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades were visible as he crossed the room.

Combeferre watched him as he padded over to a single wooden desk, the rough soles of his shoes scraping against the floor. He crouched down and grabbed a handful of rolled up papers from underneath a false bottom in the left drawer.

He dropped them on the table compliantly and then lowered himself down again into the empty chair next to Combeferre. Combeferre did not move to touch them right away.

A small smile appeared on Enjolras’ face. “I know you want to look at them,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Combeferre moved his hands away from where they were folded in his lap. He grasped one of the rolls and worked the rubber band down the cylindrical curve of the paper.

Combeferre unrolled it, trying very hard to contain his eagerness, and ran his palms over the smooth white paper. Enjolras, meanwhile, held down one corner of the page with his left hand.

Combeferre’s eyes swept over the blueprints, which was a representation of the head of the Jaeger. The spaces not covered by the drawing were filled with cramped handwriting in dark black ink. Combeferre’s mind began reeling with all the numbers and the equations that were spread out in front of him, trying to make sense of them. “This must be all kinds of illegal,” he observed.

“There's no doubt about that,” Enjolras replied, unperturbed.

Combeferre looked up slowly, noticing that Enjolras had let down his defenses now that he didn’t think anyone was watching. Combeferre immediately recognized the pained expression on his face. 

Combeferre stopped what he was doing, the Jaeger blueprints now a secondary concern. Up until a few minutes ago, he wasn't sure if it was his place to call attention to it. But he felt that now might be an appropriate time to voice his suspicion, especially after viewing the way that Enjolras had navigated his way through the crowd, always angled off a little bit to the left.

“Enjolras?”

“Is there something else you'd like to see?” Enjolras inquired.

“No, but I do want to ask you something.”

“Well, what is it, then?” he prompted.

“When did you hurt your arm?” 

Enjolras arched his eyebrows, surprise written plainly on his face.

“Observant,” Grantaire said with an appreciative nod.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Enjolras protested, but his eyes instantly betrayed his discomfort. Combeferre regarded him in the dim light of the room, which was enough for him to see the hollowness of his cheeks and the dark rings under his blue eyes. Blond hair the color of early morning sunlight framed his pale face. Combeferre looked at him and the only thing that came to mind was  _washed out_. 

“I’ve already tried,” Grantaire explained. “He’s too stubborn.”

"It’s nothing," Enjolras insisted.

Combeferre leaned forward. A crease in the middle of his forehead accompanied his frown. “Can I take a look at it, at least?” he offered.

“He just wants to help,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras was silent for a full minute before he finally spoke again. "I think it might be dislocated," he said.

Combeferre rose from his seat, anxious to address the injury. "Dislocated?" he repeated. “You must be in a lot of pain.”

Enjolras was silent. He repositioned himself so that his legs were dangling over one side of the chair, while simultaneously rolling up his shirt sleeve. He inhaled sharply as the rough cotton dragged along the crook of his elbow.

Combeferre knelt down and started at the sight of purple bruises stretching across the soft skin of his forearm. Enjolras offered out his wrist. Combeferre grasped it but was careful not to move it in any way that would cause him more discomfort.

The bruises wrapped around his elbow and trailed up his bicep in dark splotches. The bone itself was twisted in at an unnatural angle, almost as if it had been pushed in on itself. A quiet minute passed while Combeferre checked his pulse.

Grantaire wandered over to where Combeferre was hovering over Enjolras. He perched himself on the edge of the table and watched carefully over both of them.

At glimpsing the look on Combeferre’s face, Grantaire said, "I tried to tell him. He should have gone to the clinic right away."

"That doesn’t matter now," Combeferre noted.

Grantaire sighed. "Joly will never let him hear the end of it." 

"How long has he been injured?" Combeferre was still busy scrutinizing the sharp angle of Enjolras’ elbow. Judging by the color of the bruises, it must have been a few days since the accident had occurred.

"Ask him yourself,” Grantaire shot back. "Who knows if what he told me is the truth."

Combeferre locked eyes with Enjolras. "I want to help you," he said, clearly enunciating each syllable and leaving no room in his voice for argument.

"Then help," Enjolras said through clenched teeth.

"I will. But first you have to tell me how long."

"It’s been three days now," came the murmured reply.

"Three days," Combeferre echoed. He released Enjolras' wrist and straightened. “You’ll have to come with me to the clinic,” he decided. “It won't do to have everyone hear you scream when it pops back into place.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to say something but apparently thought better of it.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said sharply in an attempt to focus his attention again. “Will you please go tell Courfeyrac that he can come in?”

Grantaire’s eyes flickered over Enjolras’ arm one last time. He hopped down off the table and crossed over to open the door without another word. “He says you can come in,” he said into the darkened hallway.

Courfeyrac ceased his pacing at once and hastened in. He immediately sensed the energy in the room and dialed down his own excitement several notches. “Is everything alright?” He didn’t wait for an answer to his question. He closed the rest of the distance and halted when he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Combeferre.

His eyes traveled from the bruising on Enjolras’ exposed arm to the expression on Combeferre’s face. “Looks like we’ll be going to the clinic again tonight?” he said. “I knew there was no way you could come out of that fall unharmed,” he added under his breath, which prompted Combeferre to make a mental note to ask about it later.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said, drawing out the syllables in his name. “I will get fired if I show any signs of injury. It might give us away.”

“He'd be seen as a liability,” Grantaire added.

“But you might not build your section correctly if you’re distracted by the pain,” Courfeyrac countered. “You could get fired either way.”

“No one’s getting fired,” Combeferre cut in. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll relocate the bone and give you some pain pills - ”

Enjolras’ eyes flashed in response to Combeferre's statement.

“I know you’re in pain. Don’t try and tell me otherwise,” Combeferre continued. “I'll wrap it up so that it won't be noticeable under your clothes, alright?”

“Do what you have to do,” Enjolras consented. “I trust you.”

“Looks like we’ve got a plan,” Courfeyrac said. He patted around in his pants pocket for his keys. “I’ll drive.”

Combeferre gathered up the rolls of blueprints and replaced them in the desk drawer without a second thought.

Meanwhile, Grantaire had made his way back over to where Enjolras was sitting. Enjolras grimaced as his fingertips grazed at the material bunched up around his bicep, and he tugged at it. Grantaire sensed what he was doing and knelt down so that he was level with him. He helped to gently edge the loose grey sleeve back down over his elbow.

“Also, we’ll need to bring Joly,” Combeferre added in afterthought. “It’s going to take two people.”

“We’ll grab him on the way out,” Courfeyrac responded. “Let’s get going.”

Enjolras stood up and led the way back down the hallway, seemingly undeterred at the discovery of his injury. Grantaire followed close on his heels, while Courfeyrac and Combeferre brought up the rear of their procession.

“You know, I came to rescue you,” Courfeyrac confessed. “But it doesn’t look like you need any saving. You can clearly hold your own.”

“Well, thank you all the same,” Combeferre said without removing his eyes from the back of Enjolras’ head. "It's the thought that counts." 

Enjolras, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac continued on to the parking lot, while Combeferre searched for Joly. He finally found him perched on a bar stool with his elbows propped up on the countertop. Combeferre reached out and gripped his shoulder in greeting, trying his hardest not to alarm him.

“Hello again,” Joly said, without even turning to look at him. He wheeled around in the stool and raised his eyebrows. He took one look at his expression and frowned. “Which one of them is hurt this time?”

* * *

The clinic lights clicked on, making a humming noise as they flickered back to life.

Joly led the way into the empty room as Combeferre went to fetch pain medication and bandages. Enjolras sat obediently on the examination table, and Joly helped him to push up his shirt sleeve again.

Courfeyrac lifted himself up onto the free section of counter space to observe, and Grantaire hovered off to Enjolras’ uninjured side.

“We don’t have any more local anesthesia,” Combeferre informed Enjolras when he returned. This comment seemed to pique Grantaire's attention.

Combeferre hesitated as he noticed that the counter space was already occupied. Courfeyrac held out his hands obligingly, and Combeferre left the container of bandages with him. Combeferre offered out a packet of pain pills in one hand to Enjolras. "So, either we can wait for these to kick in or we can do it right now. Your choice."

“Just get it over with,” Enjolras said. “I'll be fine.”

Combeferre exchanged a glance with Joly and replaced the packet in his pocket. They both positioned himself on Enjolras' right side.

Combeferre wrapped his fingers around Enjolras' wrist and anchored his other hand right at the crook of his elbow. Meanwhile, both of Joly’s hands gripped the middle of Enjolras’ upper arm to stabilize it. Combeferre took a moment to focus and to blink away a couple of stray tears that had sprung up in the corner of his eyes. He had never tried to relocate an elbow without the patient being sedated or anesthetized first.

"Ready?" Joly said, cutting through his thoughts. "On the count of three. One..."

Courfeyrac had already turned away to look out the window on the adjacent wall.

"Two..."

Enjolras’ free hand began to tremble. Grantaire noticed it and pressed closer to him. He clutched his hand and pressed their palms together. Grantaire swallowed and fixed his gaze on the place on the floor where white tiles intersected with green ones. Enjolras’ fingertips turned white as he returned Grantaire’s grip.

"Three-"

Combeferre increased the pressure of his grip around the crux of his elbow and in one sharp movement snapped the bone back into place, prompting Enjolras to let out a strangled cry. Grantaire winced, and Enjolras released his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre said softly as he both let go of his arm. He returned to where Courfeyrac was sitting to sift through the assortment of bandages while Enjolras focused on steadying his breathing.

In order to compensate for what he had done, Combeferre worked to wrap up his arm with gentle touches. Combeferre knew that they could not dissuade him from stopping his work on the Wall, so he sought to provide the next best solution. The wrapping would help to cover the bruising in case his arm were to be exposed, and it would also make ensure that the elbow was held in the right place until it healed properly.

“It’s over now,” Combeferre said, and he stepped back so that Enjolras could ease his way off the table.

Grantaire looked up again as Joly offered out a couple of white pills to him, depositing the single bottle back into his lab coat. Grantaire recognized it as one of the narcotics that he had dropped off earlier.

“He’s going to need it." Grantaire held out his hand, and Joly deposited them in his palm. He gazed from Joly to Combeferre and searched for the appropriate words to convey his gratitude for everything they'd done. 

He settled on a simple thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to [Una](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ireallydontknowok) and [ Jenny](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK) for everything they've done for this story. Couldn't do it without you two. :)

Combeferre sat straight up in bed the next morning, jolted awake by the noise of his cell phone. It vibrated against the surface of the cardboard box, which he'd nicked from the clinic. It was now serving as a makeshift nightstand next to his mattress.

He smoothed out the corner of the page of paper that had become folded when he'd fallen asleep on it. He fumbled around in the sheets for his glasses and finally found them near one corner of the pillow, another thing that he'd borrowed from the clinic.

He blinked a couple of times and tried to shake off the lingering feeling of sleepiness as Courfeyrac’s number flashed across the screen.

“Hello?” His eyelids still seemed impossibly heavy as they focused on the sight of the sunrise peeking through the curtains.

“Did I wake you?” Courfeyrac murmured.

Combeferre hesitated to answer as he gathered together the papers that were strewn across the bed.

Courfeyrac hastened to fill the awkward silence. “I’m really sorry about that. I thought that you’d probably be awake by now,” he explained. 

Combeferre pulled his cell phone away from his ear momentarily to consult the time, which informed him that he only had half an hour to get ready for work.

“It’s for the best that you woke me up,” he admitted as he pressed it back against his ear. “Thanks for that," he said as he pulled himself out of bed.

“You’re welcome,” Courfeyrac replied. “I guess.”

“So, I'm assuming you called for a reason?” Combeferre headed into the kitchen, at the same time scrutinizing the sketches he had produced the night before. "Not that you need one. I'd be happy either way." The light lines of his pencil drawing swept over the sheet of printer paper in a series of arches and straight lines. He frowned as he realized he wasn’t quite as accurate to the drawing of the Jaeger as he'd previously thought.

“I was wondering if it would be too presumptuous of me to give you a ride to work this morning,” Courfeyrac said, doing his best to make the offer sound casual.

The papers slipped from Combeferre’s fingers and fluttered to the floor. He didn’t watch them long enough to see where they landed. “Just out of the goodness of your heart, or what?” he wondered. "I'm sensing an ulterior motive." 

"I have something for you,” Courfeyrac said, keeping his response purposefully vague.

Combeferre caught sight of his reflection in the window, his hair sticking up in three different directions and a criss-cross of red lines from where his face had come to rest on top of two different sheets of paper when he'd finally nodded off. He slid a hand over his face and peered through the gaps between his fingers. “I’m not even dressed,” he admitted.

“Oh, that’s alright! I can always drop by the clinic later,” Courfeyrac said without missing a beat.

“No, no, can you give me fifteen minutes?” Combeferre asked, already halfway to the bathroom. He rifled through his dresser drawers for a change of clothes on his way by.

“Sure thing. I have to make another stop anyway,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre could hear a door slam somewhere in the background.

“Wait,” Combeferre stopped dead in his tracks, his fingertips resting on the curve of the doorknob. “What about Joly?”

"I’ll let him know. I’m sure he won’t mind."

“Alright, I’ll be ready,” he promised. Combeferre pressed on into the bathroom and caught himself smiling in the mirror.

“Hey, one last thing?”

“Yes?” Combeferre said. He grabbed a clean towel from under the sink and yanked the shower curtain, the rings clattering as they slid along on the metal rod.

“Which apartment is yours?"

* * *

When Combeferre answered the door fifteen minutes later, he found himself confronted with the sight of Courfeyrac bundled up from head to toe. His blue scarf was knotted around his neck, and the tip of his nose was bright pink. His threadbare knit winter hat was slipping off his head, clinging to the back of his skull for dear life, and his shoulders were still hunched from the cold outside.

He clutched a cardboard coffee cup in his bare hands and offered it to Combeferre.  
  
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said weakly. He curled his fingers around the cup and smiled as its warmth radiated into his palms. “Thank you.”

“I didn't have to, no. But I wanted to. Besides, you’ll need something to take off the edge off the chill this morning,” Courfeyrac said. He ducked his head for a moment. When he raised his eyes again, they were glowing with a new kind of brightness. “But that’s not the best part.”

Courfeyrac paused to glance around the vacant hallway. “Do you mind if I come in for a second?”

“Of course not,” Combeferre said as he opened the door open wider. Courfeyrac followed him into the apartment, his shoes scuffing on the carpet as they walked through the small entryway. They came to a halt in the kitchen.

It was only then that Courfeyrac produced a rolled up page from underneath his coat. Combeferre’s face brightened as he recognized it.

“This is a gift from Enjolras,” Courfeyrac explained, but he made no move to hand it over. He spared another glance at it. “It's a copy of the one you saw last night.”

Combeferre’s pulse throbbed in his throat, and he suddenly remembered that he had yet to take a sip of his drink. He hastened to swallow a mouthful, but it only made him want to cry more. In that cup was perhaps the best tea he had ever tasted in his life. “Where did you get this?” he wondered, his eyes widening in shock. “It’s really good.”

Courfeyrac smiled and finally held out the blueprints. “Grantaire always knows the best places for everything,” he said by way of explanation.

"Thank you again," Combeferre said as his fingers tightened around the page “I can't wait to look at this.”

“Sure.” Courfeyrac started to move, but he stopped himself. He had spotted the papers on the ground and did not want to step on them. He stooped down and gathered together the stray sheets of paper from where Combeferre had forgotten to pick them up earlier. “Did you mean to leave these on the floor?” he asked.

“No,” Combeferre admitted. He turned and set both the blueprints and his cup on the kitchen counter.

Courfeyrac handed the pages over without taking a second look at them.  
  
Combeferre couldn't help but laugh at himself for not remembering to pick them up. He flipped the remaining pages over and realigned the edges, his gaze lingering on the top sketch. He wandered over until he was standing next to Courfeyrac, and he showed him one of the drawings of the Jaeger rig that he had come up with in the early hours of the morning.

“Did you do this from memory?” Courfeyrac asked, not bothering to conceal his awe.

“Yes, and I understand how Enjolras got his injury now,” Combeferre said.

He traced the set up with his index finger. The wiring that made up the rig snaked around the place where the pilot were hooked into the system. Combined with Courfeyrac’s comment about a fall the night before, Combeferre felt confident in saying, “He got tangled in the cords.”

Courfeyrac crossed his arms. “You're right,” he finally said.

"You say that like you're surprised," Combeferre shot back.

“I honestly shouldn't be." Courfeyrac shrugged. "Hey, guess what? I heard that you’ll be going on a little field trip this weekend." He paused and then added, "I'm terrible at keeping secrets from you, aren't I?"

Combeferre’s breath hitched in his throat, and he quickly moved to deposit the sketches on the counter before he could drop them again. “Wait. Do you mean - ?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac finished for him. “That’s exactly what I mean... But as much as I’d love to tell you more about it, I think we’d better get going.”

“Right, of course,” Combeferre said quickly. He grabbed his own scarf and gloves. His key ring jingled as he locked the apartment door behind him. He watched Courfeyrac take a few steps down the hallway and then called out to stop him.

“Wait a second.” Combeferre approached him tentatively, his eyes fixed on the hat that had fallen astray. “Your hat is falling off,” he observed. He realized that he had been itching to fix it ever since he had first noticed it.

“Is it?” Courfeyrac said. He sensed the unspoken question in Combeferre’s eyes, and he responded to it by making a point not to withdraw his hands from his coat pockets.

Combeferre hesitated for a few more seconds as he summoned his courage. He reached out and grasped the soft fabric, readjusting it carefully back over Courfeyrac's curly brown hair.

“Better?” Courfeyrac wondered and flashed Combeferre the most adorable smile in his arsenal.

“Much,” Combeferre confirmed.

They both looked straight down at the ground the whole walk out to Courfeyrac’s car.

* * *

Joly looked up as Combeferre strolled through the waiting room with a new spring in his step. His pen dropped down into his open manila folder with a dull thump. He crossed his arms and smirked as Combeferre began to unravel his scarf. “You’ve found another ride, then?” he prompted. He clapped a hand over his heart, feigning a wound there. 

“I didn’t find another ride,” Combeferre corrected. He yanked it the rest of the way off his neck. “Another ride came to me.”

“What's so funny?” Joly wondered as Combeferre burst out laughing.

Combeferre meandered over to where he was sitting and leaned up against the edge of the reception desk, deliberately drawing out the moment. He crossed his arms and then finally met Joly’s gaze. “He brought me tea,” he said. "Can you believe it?"

“Yes. I can. But you know what I _can't_ believe?” Joly’s lips formed an exaggerated frown. 

"What?"  
  
"That he's never actually bothered to bring  _me_ anything," he huffed and scooped up his pen again, returning to his work without another word. 

* * *

It was just nearing one o'clock in the afternoon when Grantaire showed up at the clinic.

"Hey, you came through the front door this time," Combeferre joked as he watched him cross the length of the waiting room.

“Yes, and I come bearing gifts,” Grantaire informed him. He had a black hoodie pulled over his chest, and he was wearing a pair of jeans that were frayed at the knees. He indicated the two plastic bags hooked around his wrists. “I thought I’d bring you two lunch as a thank you for last night,” he explained.

“Wow, it’s our lucky day,” Combeferre said as pushed out of the chair at the reception desk. He reached out to help Grantaire with one of the bags. “Joly is finishing up with someone, but he’ll be done soon.”

Combeferre was quick to locate two folding chairs from where they were hiding behind a large cardboard box in the supply room and pushed two of them together near the reception desk for both Grantaire and Joly. Meanwhile, Grantaire worked to divided two containers full of Italian food, mindful to save some of it as he rearranged the food on both plates.

“Eat up,” Grantaire said, as he presented a white paper plate and a set of utensils bound up in a white napkin to Combeferre. They ate in a comfortable silence until Grantaire worked up his nerve to ask a question. “Combeferre?”

Combeferre swallowed his mouthful of food. He observed Grantaire and gradually lowered his plate. “Yes?”

“How long do you think it will take for Enjolras’ elbow to heal?” Grantaire inquired. He twirled some spaghetti around his plastic fork and shoved it into his mouth.

“Anywhere from two to four weeks,” Combeferre replied. “He’s going to be alright, if that’s what's worrying you.”

“No, I know that… But would it be too much to ask for a few of those packets of pain pills?” Grantaire asked.

Combeferre started as he realized that they hadn’t sent him off with anything apart from the narcotic.

“I'll get you some,” he said. He set his plate on the desk and rifled around in his pockets. He was able to produce a few spare packets. "Do you think this will be enough for now?" Combeferre asked. "I'm afraid you're going to have to wait for the next shipment if you want something stronger."

"No, no, that will do," Grantaire assured him. He took the pills and shoved them into the pocket of his jeans. He then leaned forward to set his own paper plate on the edge of the desk. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt and met Combeferre’s probing gaze.

“What’s wrong, Grantaire?” Combeferre asked softly. He rested a hand on Grantaire’s forearm.

“He’s so quiet,” Grantaire said. He ducked his head and looked down at the chipped edges of his nails. “It’s never good when he’s quiet. It worries me."

“Grantaire, I think -” Combeferre started to say, but, as he was about to finish his sentence, Joly bustled out of the examination room. He escorted the patient to the door and then turned back around to face the other two. It was only then that Combeferre noticed the cell phone clutched in his left hand, his fingertips turning white from how tightly he was gripping it.

Combeferre was already rising from his seat. Grantaire remained seated and carded a hand through his hair out of nervous habit.   
  
Joly's eyes flickered from Grantaire to Combeferre as he said, “A section of the Wall just collapsed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of this update will be coming very shortly (i.e. within the next few hours). Hang tight! ;)


	7. Chapter 7

Combeferre felt his stomach drop as Joly replaced his cell phone in his pocket. Grantaire rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands and had to swallow down the hysterical sob building in the back of his throat. Combeferre moved to rest a reassuring hand on Grantaire's shoulder.

It occurred to Combeferre to ask, “Was it a Kaiju that destroyed it?”

“No,” Joly said solemnly. “The apparent lack of a Kaiju and a crumbled Wall is a very distressing combination.”

“Unsinkable ship, unbreakable wall… it never changes, does it?” Grantaire started to say.

“Grantaire,” Joly said next, cutting through the cacophony of thoughts colliding in Grantaire’s skull. “We don’t know yet if- ”

“It doesn’t matter,” Grantaire interrupted. Joly watched as something shattered in his eyes, and he began to weep. “How do we even have a hope of keeping the Kaiju out if we can’t even keep the damn wall from collapsing _on us_ while we’re building it?” he rambled on through his tears. “I need a goddamn drink.”

“Later,” Joly said firmly. “Combeferre and I need an extra set of hands.”

“What, me?” Grantaire cried out wildly. He opened his mouth to protest again, but Combeferre tightened his grip on Grantaire’s shoulder. He focused on the wrinkles in the sweatshirt created by his own fingertips to keep himself present.

“How steady are your hands right now?” Combeferre inquired. Grantaire pulled them out of his coat pocket and held them out reluctantly. They had only the slightest tremor. Combeferre nodded approvingly, and Grantaire balled up his fists.

“But what if one of our friends is hurt?” Grantaire asked next. “What if it’s Bossuet?” He met Combeferre’s gaze again and shook his head a couple of times. “Or Courfeyrac? Or any of them?”

“Then we will take care of them the best we can,” Joly finished. “Look, you don’t have to help if you don’t feel like you can handle it. But you do need to make up your mind. I’m sure the first people will be showing up soon.”

“We don’t have any more time to waste,” Combeferre emphasized. He started to gather up their lunch from where it had been abandoned on the desk.

“What would you need me to do?” Grantaire asked after a few moments of silence, his gaze now fixed on the wall directly in front of him.

“Basic first aid,” Combeferre replied. Combeferre regarded his vacant expression and momentarily abandoned what he was doing. He struggled to fight back the desperation in his own voice. “Listen to me. We need you…” Combeferre planted his feet firmly in front of where Grantaire was sitting. “We need you here,” he finished.

“And you’ve been around here enough in the past year that you’ve most likely picked up something,” Joly reasoned. "And something is better than nothing."

“Even if that is true, what if I mess something up? What if I make it worse?”

“You won’t,” Combeferre replied. “You’d just have to do basic disinfecting and bandaging of wounds.”

“Stop the bleeding as best you can,” Joly summarized. “That’s the goal.”

Grantaire considered this and then said, "I will try."

“Are you sure?” Joly asked. “This is your last chance to back out.”

“I’m sure. Maybe I can actually be useful for once in my life,” he said despondently.

Combeferre proceeded to give him a quick demonstration of the proper way to inject a tetanus shot in the inevitable event of cuts from the metal portions and stray nails. Joly then gave him a crash course on the various signs of shock and concussions, which were two of the injuries they were expecting in high quantities.

Combeferre and Joly set him up with a table full of spare medical supplies in one corner of the waiting room, arming him with bandages, shots, and disinfecting supplies, knowing at the same time that the clock was running down on their last minutes of relative calm.

Grantaire began to absentmindedly rearrange the supplies on the surface of the table. Without looking back up, he said, “If things would have turned out a little differently, I might have become a doctor, too.”

“I didn’t know that,” Joly said. He paused briefly in his own work to smile at him. “You know, there’s still time, if you’d like to be one.”

“I’ll think about it,” Grantaire allowed before lapsing into silence again. He jumped as his own phone started to ring. He let out a small cry before pressing it to his ear. “Enjolras? Oh, thank god. You're doing what?" He listened for a moment and then frowned. He hung up and shoved his phone back into his pocket.

Combeferre felt a flood of relief as Grantaire confirmed that Enjolras had used a borrowed phone to report that he was uninjured and staying to help.

The knot of anxiety in his stomach tightened from having no idea what to expect. He left Joly and Grantaire and went to replace his stock of pain pills from the box in the supply closet, and then decided to wedge the supply room open with a thin slipper that he had found in the box of spare clothes for unobstructed access into the room.

Combeferre rejoined Joly back at the reception desk as soon as he finished making sure that his portable x-ray machine was still functioning correctly. He still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he had from an apparent lack of information provided to them when the call first came through. He and Joly pushed up the sleeves of their clean white lab coats simultaneously and shared a brief look. Joly’s fingers brushed up against Combeferre’s forearm briefly in a gesture of good luck.

“Brace yourself,” Joly advised as the first causalities pulled up in Bahorel’s pick-up truck. He and Combeferre snapped on a clean set of gloves as they passed the desk and hurried to meet them.

Judging by what Enjolras had told him about his height earlier, Combeferre was quickly able to pick out which one was Bahorel.

“Bahorel, right?” Combeferre asked tentatively as the man met him in the middle of the waiting room. Combeferre indicated a nearby folding chair and pulled out another one for himself in front of it. Joly, meanwhile, redirected one woman with a relatively shallow cut over to Grantaire’s table. He took one look at the pupil size of the man accompanying her and ushered him off to deal with a potential concussion.

“Right, yes,” Bahorel said and dropped down heavily into the chair. “I’m sorry that we couldn’t have met under happier circumstances.”

“Are you hurt?” Combeferre’s eyes swept over him, taking in minor abrasions on his face and wrists. Bahorel didn't respond immediately; he was busy watching Grantaire hunched over the woman’s arm, his lips pressed together in concentration as he wiped her gash clean.

“Did you hit your head at all?” Combeferre asked next, while at the same time observing him for any visible signs of shock.

“No, it’s just my hand.” Bahorel finally held out his right hand, which was dark with a purple bruise that stretched across on the back of his hand from his thumb to the stretch of skin beneath his pinky finger. At least two of the fingers were dislocated. Combeferre pulled out the portable x-ray machine from his pocket to confirm the diagnosis.

“I held up a piece of scaffolding so that they could get out,” he explained while Combeferre pulled up the scans on the screen.

Combeferre studied the angle of the bones for a few minutes and then replaced the device in his pocket.

“I’ll relocate your fingers,” he said as he patted around in his other pocket. Bahorel heard the crinkling of a packet and raised his uninjured hand to stop him.

“Save them,” Bahorel insisted. “There are others who will need it more than I do.”

“Are you sure?” Combeferre asked warily. Bahorel clamped down his teeth on his bottom lip in preparation and endured the procedure stoically. Blood dripped down his chin as Combeferre reset his index finger and then his middle finger, popping them back into their proper place. Combeferre stopped to pull out a tissue out of his pocket in order to dab at the blood on his chin before setting to work taping his fingers together.

“Have you heard from any of the others?” Combeferre inquired as he tore off a piece of tape.

“Not yet,” Bahorel said as Combeferre finished winding the tape around his fingers. His breathing grew more staggered, and Combeferre withdrew his own hands, fearing that his touch was the source of his anguish.

“It’s not you,” Bahorel blinked quickly, and Combeferre’s stomach clenched as he noted the tears forming in his eyes. “A lot of the scaffolding collapsed when part of the Wall crumbled. It’s a nightmare.”

“How many more people are we expecting, do you think?”

“I’d say at least fifty,” Bahorel estimated. “But I’ll get a better idea when I go back to pick up the next group.”

“Just let Grantaire patch up a couple of those cuts before you go?” Combeferre said, even though somewhere in his head he felt like he should have been advising Bahorel against driving around with only one good hand.

“Alright.” Bahorel craned his head over his shoulder as he heard the tread of tires on the pavement outside. His shoulders slumped as he saw at least five people stumble out of Bossuet’s van, along with one man carried in the arms of another man.

Combeferre automatically latched on to the one being carried inside. It was an older man with a visible neck wound that was dripping blood onto the concrete outside. At the same, he directed two people to Grantaire’s station and asked Bossuet and the remaining two to take a seat.

Meanwhile, Joly and his first patient were just finishing up. After they left the examination room, Joly dragged the two chairs that Combeferre had retrieved earlier and situated them against the wall behind the reception desk. He advised the patient to wait there until they could organize some kind of transport to the local hospital.

It was then that Joly caught sight of Bossuet across the waiting room. Bossuet rose slowly from his seat as he spotted Joly heading in his direction. Their coming together in that moment was somewhat like two opposite ends of magnets being placed in the same vicinity – there was the slow pull as they oriented themselves and then they came together quickly. 

Joly threw his arms around Bossuet’s neck and pulled him close. One of Bossuet’s arms instinctively curved around Joly’s back to return the hug, his forearm resting in the curve between his shoulder blades.

“How bad is it?” Joly asked as he pulled away. He untangled his arms and took a step back to assess the damage.

“Shoulder,” Bossuet managed. Joly immediately saw where it had been jolted out of place. His eyes continued their course down his arm and only came away with a minor burn peeking out of his sleeve.

“I dropped my welder when the scaffolding started to collapse,” Bossuet explained.

“A burn and a dislocated shoulder.” Joly exhaled. “That’s easy.”

“You could fix it in your sleep,” Bossuet said. Joly permitted himself to smile as an expression of his overwhelming relief. “But I can wait. Help the other two first."

Joly grimaced as he saw that he’d be dealing with a shattered arm and another head wound in this group. He reached out and clasped Bossuet’s good hand. He laced their fingers together and tightened his grip as a gesture of reassurance.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Joly promised and then set off to help the other two people.

It took him forty five minutes to return to Bossuet. He made sure to check on both Grantaire and Combeferre, who both assured them that they had things under control for the time being, before indicating for Bossuet to join him.

“Come on, let’s get you taken care of,” Joly said as he walked with Bossuet back to their usual examination room. “Have you heard from any of the others?” he asked as the door clicked shut behind him.

“Not yet,” Bossuet admitted. “It’s horrible. I’m afraid that the others might have been caught up in it... Our only consolation is that it happened so close to the shift change, otherwise there might have been a lot more people hurt.”

Joly began to go through the timetable of work schedules in his head as he exchanged his bloody gloves for a new set. He relayed to Bossuet that Enjolras had already called.

“Good,” Bossuet nodded. “But Jehan was working, as was Courfeyrac. But Courfeyrac came in a little later than the rest of us, so I’m not sure which section he was assigned to. It really isn't like him to be late.”

“Oh, Bossuet, let him off the hook,” Joly said with a hint of a smile on his lips. “He was doing something important.”

"He was?” Bossuet prodded further at seeing the expression on Joly’s face.

“Well, I didn’t have to give our good friend a ride this morning, I’ll put it that way,” Joly said. He anchored one of his hands at Bossuet’s clavicle and the other along his forearm. “I think he’s quite taken with Combeferre.”

“Oh, god,” Bossuet managed to say before clenching his teeth tightly together in anticipation of the relocation. Joly worked it back into place and then released his grip. Bossuet rotated his shoulder a few times to test it out and was satisfied with his range of motion.

“You shouldn’t be so good at this,” Bossuet sighed as Joly released his arm. Joly flinched as he felt his cell phone begin to buzz in his pocket. He fished it out and then held it cradled between his ear and his shoulder as he started to apply the antibiotic cream to Bossuet’s burn.

“Feuilly?” he said. He heard the wind whipping and the hysterical noises of people in the background. “What’s going on?”

“I found them… I just finished my shift and was going to the warehouse, but I turned around as soon as I heard it…” Feuilly inhaled and attempted to steady his voice. “Joly, we’re really going to need a doctor out here.”

“Who is it?” he urged. He began to wrap a bandage around the bright red burn on Bossuet’s forearm.

“Jehan,” Feuilly informed him solemnly. “And there’s still no sign of Courfeyrac.”

“You’ll find him,” Joly said as he finished his work with Bossuet. Feuilly began to shout incoherently at someone on the other end of the line.

“Bossuet,” he said while he waited for things to settle down on the other end. “Can you take Combeferre back with you to the Wall?”

“Do you really think that’s wise?” Bossuet said as he rolled down his sleeve back over his arm.

“I’m completely confident in his abilities, if that’s what you mean, and I’m capable of handling things here at the moment,” Joly replied. He remained quiet for a few more seconds as Bossuet hopped down off the table and then drew him into another hug. The phone was still pressed to his ear. “He’ll want to be there when they find Courfeyrac,” he said quietly, his warm breath tickling the skin on Bossuet’s neck.

“Alright. I'll take him with me,” Bossuet said.

Joly pushed himself onto his toes to press a kiss to Bossuet’s cheek. “Be careful, alright?” he said, while at the same time, things on Feuilly’s end suddenly became intelligible again.

“Are you sending someone? We need help now,” Feuilly said, his voice shrill.

“Bossuet and Combeferre are on their way,” he said as Bossuet hurried out of the room to locate Combeferre.

* * *

Combeferre pulled his jacket tighter against the wind and clutched onto his makeshift first aid kit, which was really only a briefcase full to the bursting with everything he thought might be potentially useful. His eyes traveled over the skeleton of the Wall. It was a small consolation that the portion of it that was visible from the parking lot was still whole and standing. Bossuet had a bright orange backboard situated under his arm as he led the way to the western-most stretch of the Wall. They passed Bahorel loading another group of people into his truck on their way through the parking lot.

Combeferre heard the chaos before he saw it. It was present in the high-pitched noises of the crowd and the sound of shifting concrete as wall-workers helped to free those were trapped beneath it. There was still a light film hanging in the air from the dust that had not quite settled.

All around him were government officials with squelching radios, talking with each other and throwing around phrases like “internal structural failure." Combeferre didn’t comprehend much of what they were saying.

Combeferre followed Bossuet into the heart of the rubble. They carefully picked their way through misshapen slabs of concrete and splinters of wooden boards until they encountered a congregation of people huddled together.

“Feuilly!” Bossuet cried out. A man of medium height and a shocking head of wavy ginger hair looked over his shoulder and separated himself from the crowd. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not hurt,” he assured them with a wave of his hand. “Follow me.”

They followed him around more piles of rubble until they reached a clearing. Bossuet gently set the backboards down on a small stretch of ground that had been cleared for those who were injured. Combeferre rushed ahead in front of Bossuet to where Jehan was propped up against a slab of the concrete, clutching at his left leg.

“He can’t walk,” Feuilly explained as Combeferre knelt down next to him. “We pulled him out alright, but his leg is crushed.” Feuilly knelt down on his other side and held his hand.

Combeferre hastened to assess the damage. He performed a quick examination down the length of his leg. He was also concerned by the sheen of sweat covering Jehan’s freckled face, and his skin was cold and clammy to the touch.

“He’s in shock, and his kneecap is shattered,” Combeferre said. He gently loosened Jehan’s shirt from where it was tight around his throat before doing anything else. He shrugged out of his own coat and draped it over Jehan’s chest. Jehan huddled into it, his teeth chattering. Combeferre dug around in his bag for supplies to make a temporary splint for his leg. As soon as he had stabilized it, he called Bossuet over to help him get Jehan on the backboard.

Just as they were finishing maneuvering him onto the board, Jehan reached out and wrapped a hand around Combeferre’s wrist to get his attention. “His hat,” he managed.

“Where?” Combeferre urged him.

A chill ran down Combeferre’s spine as Jehan swallowed and lifted his other hand. He pointed further down the ruins with an outstretched index finger. “I saw it lying on the ground over that way,” he said.

Combeferre’s stomach dropped. He tried to say something else, but the words evaporated on his lips. "Bossuet, I have to go," he said. " _Now_."

"Wait," Bossuet said sharply. He grabbed Feuilly again and asked, “Is there anyone else who isn’t hurt who can give us a hand?”

“With?" Feuilly prompted.

“I need you to help me carry Jehan, but someone needs to go with Combeferre,” Bossuet explained. He was painfully aware of the fact that Joly would give him a stern lecture if he let Combeferre go searching for Courfeyrac alone.

“Hold on,” Feuilly said with a single nod. He wove his way around piles of concrete and disappeared momentarily. Combeferre adjusted the strap of his briefcase along his shoulder and shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for Feuilly to return. He came back a few minutes later with Enjolras following close on his heels.

Enjolras took one look at Combeferre’s face and seemed to understand everything. They promptly took off at a sprint down the stretch of the Wall.

But instead of calling out for Courfeyrac, they remained silent, keeping their ears pried for the cries of anyone who might be trapped beneath the concrete or the twisted metal.

Combeferre stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the hat on the ground, just like Jehan said it would be. He stooped down to scoop it up, his hand coming away with the residue clinging to the material. He shoved it into his briefcase for a lack of a better place to put it.

"Over here!" Enjolras yelled as he rounded another pile of concrete. This particular section of the Wall was deserted. There were no government officials in sight. The metal skeleton was still in place for the most part, but the greater part of the concrete and other materials had crumbled away. They spotted Courfeyrac lying on his stomach, surrounded by a pile of rubble. Combeferre's pulse jumped up into his throat as he and Enjolras knelt down next to him. They both worked together to roll him over onto his back. Combeferre immediately regretted not bringing along another backboard with them. He felt the tears begin to slip down his cheeks as his fingers sought Courfeyrac's wrist.

A cry burst from his lips as his hand tightened around Courfeyrac's wrist.

The pulse was weak, but it was there.

Combeferre had never been so thankful in his entire life.


	8. Chapter 8

The first time Combeferre had worked on a cadaver had been during his first year of medical school. As he and Bossuet hefted the bright orange backboard through the propped open doors of the clinic, pieces of that first exposure to death came back to him in bits and pieces, triggered by the flicker of the fluorescent lights overhead and the stinging smell of disinfectant permeating the air. A twinge of nervousness blossomed in the pit of his stomach - it was a combination of pure terror laced with a painful awareness of the person he was going to be hunched over for the next hour at least. But his first experience with a cadaver was in the forefront of his mind right now.

He had only been twenty one when he reported to the lab for the first time. He could still remember rocking back and forth, rolling his weight from his toes to his heels, in excitement of the day ahead of him. He heard the jingle of car keys in someone’s pocket, a noise that echoed the scraping of the key in the sturdy lock of the morgue.

Combeferre was now aware of the people crowding near the edge of the backboard. Enjolras, who was positioned near Courfeyrac’s feet used his uninjured arm as a makeshift barrier to keep the curious bystanders at bay. As far removed as he was from the scene at the clinic, Combeferre still registered the intake of breath from a woman who drew her hands up to cover her mouth. He did not miss the deep crease of worry lines that appeared between the bushy grey eyebrows of an elderly man observing their procession, triggering the memory of the same man at the club only days previously. He had been watching the Jaeger pilot, his head tilted upward in reverence.

The three maneuvered their way into the examination room the furthest removed from the waiting area but with the easiest access to their quickly diminishing stock of medical supplies in the store room.

Combeferre sensed Enjolras and Grantaire hovering over his shoulder now, their mouths shaping words but not sounds. He focused on the light blue of the gloves snapped over his wrists. He flexed his fingers a few times and adjusted an uncomfortable crease near the heel of his palm.

“Do you need any help?” Grantaire asked. It sounded as through his words were being spoken through a thick panel of glass - they seemed muted and uncomfortably slow.

“No. I can handle it,” Combeferre replied with more confidence than he actually felt. He flicked on a light attached to the underside of a speckled grey cabinet and began to rummage around in the drawers for the suture supplies.

“Are you sure?” Enjolras pressed. Understanding the silence to be his response, he turned to consult with Grantaire. He lowered his voice considerably. “You should get back to your station,” he said.

“Are you going to stay here?” Grantaire asked, dropping the volume of his own gruff voice to match Enjolras’ tone. Enjolras nodded and pressed his lips together in a straight line.

Grantaire shifted his weight from one foot to the other and balled his fists deeper into the pocket of his jeans. He hovered near the door back to the hallway. He swallowed to soothe his dry throat.

Enjolras shifted his glance from Combeferre’s hunched back to Grantaire. "Are you alright?" 

Grantaire finally said, “I’m just glad you weren’t hurt. That’s all.”

Enjolras tilted his head slightly to the right and blinked three times in quick succession. He inched closer to Grantaire. He touched the back of Grantaire's hand first and then slid his hand up into his arm until he had a firm grip on his bicep. Grantaire’s eyes widened as Enjolras draped his free arm around the slope of his shoulders, the crook of his elbow cradling the nape of his neck, folding into him. Grantaire hastily pulled his hands out of his pockets and locked his own arms around the small of Enjolras’ back.

“Is this hurting you?” Grantaire breathed, his hot breath fanning across Enjolras’ ear. “I don’t want to hurt your arm.”

“Be quiet, please,” Enjolras pleaded. He drew back to press a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire loosened his hands so that his fingers could spread out against the ridge of spine that he could feel through the fabric of his shirt. Enjolras smiled as he felt the blossom of warmth from Grantaire’s hands. “I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

“I think we should go check on Jehan,” was all Grantaire said.

“Combeferre?” Enjolras said next. Combeferre arched a single eyebrow at him in response. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he promised. Grantaire trailed on his heels as they both withdrew from the room. Combeferre took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose.

The paleness of the faceless body deposited on the examination table in front of him looked just the same as the cadaver hovering on the edge of his memory. He set his jaw and began the process of assessing all the injuries, at the same time creating a careful itinerary of the things he’d need to do to make sure the patient could be safely transported to the local hospital. He went about cleaning the jagged wounds and stitching them back together. At one point, he could have sworn that he heard the voice of a long-forgotten instructor reminding him to straighten up the stitches and reprimanding him for his shaking hands.

He tried his best to keep his face at an angle that was tilted away from the face of the patient, lest his carefully constructed facade come crumbling down. It was at this time that he heard the creak of the door reopening. He lifted the back of his hand in greeting to Enjolras. Enjolras leaned back against the door with hunched shoulders, his free hand still clutching the cool metal doorknob. Combeferre pretended that he did not notice his breath hitching in his throat.

Combeferre could not completely feign numbness as the patient began to regain consciousness. He had a vague thought to call Enjolras over to hold his hand. His molars gritted tightly against each other as the patient traced his movements around the cramped room. Combeferre leaned against the examination table while he balanced a tin of bandages in his other hand.  
  
Courfeyrac’s raised his hand, wrapping his fingers around Combeferre's wrist. It was the final jolt of awareness that he had been denying himself since Bossuet had informed him that he'd been another casualty on the Wall. His hand stilled. 

He abandoned his search for the right size bandage for the cut on Courfeyrac’s forehead when his shoulders began to heave. The soles of Enjolras’ sneakers squeaked against the tiling as he crossed the room in four determined strides.

“Here, let me help,” Enjolras offered. He eased the container out of Combeferre’s hands and began to dig through the pile himself.

Courfeyrac released his grip on Combeferre’s wrist only to have Combeferre thread their hands back together properly. He wasn’t sure if Courfeyrac was anchoring him or if he was offering out a lifeline of his own for him to clutch on to.

Enjolras paused momentarily in his search to reassess the size of the stitched up gash on Courfeyrac’s forehead. He ripped the top of the package open and wordlessly passed it over to Combeferre.

Combeferre did not attempt to stifle his tears as the rough paper packaging rustled between his fingers. He welcomed the chance to steady his other hand. He angled himself slightly and smoothed the bandage over the rise of neat, evenly spaced stitches that marked a path from Courfeyrac’s left eyebrow and up into the curve of his scalp.

“Joly’s going to be moving the other patients to the hospital in another hour,” Enjolras said as he replaced the container in his hands onto the counter. “Would you - ?”

“I think I should stay here and watch over the clinic,” Combeferre finished for him. His hands absentmindedly moved to sweep away the locks of dark brown hair matted to Courfeyrac’s forehead. A sheen of ash from the rubble of the Wall came off on his fingers. He locked eyes with Enjolras. “Would you mind giving us a moment?”

Enjolras nodded and retreated out of the room.

Courfeyrac let out a low groan and covered his eyes with the back of his hand. “How many people?”

“At least thirty so far,” Combeferre replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Headache." Courfeyrac winced and shut his eyes against the brightness of the overhead lights.

Combeferre softened. “I promise the pain meds will kick in soon.” He inhaled but held the words to his next question in his mouth for another moment. He was unable to swallow them down. “Why weren’t you with the others when the Wall collapsed?” His words came out slightly more accusing than he had intended.

“Late,” Courfeyrac managed. “Assigned to a different section.”

“Were you late because of me?” Combeferre's shoulders caved in in an expression of defeat, as if, by being closer to each other, they could better hold together the pieces of his aching heart.

“’S okay,” Courfeyrac was too weak to argue further. He merely cracked open his eyelids and squinted at Combeferre again. He blinked a couple of times to clear the black splotches from his vision. “Who else?” he pressed. “There’s someone else.”

“It’s Jehan,” Combeferre replied. “The debris crushed one of his legs.”

Combeferre’s fingers tightened around the torn t-shirt clinging to Courfeyrac’s shoulders. Courfeyrac’s tensed beneath his grip.

“Joly is watching over him,” he said, his voice softening with reassurance. “He will be okay.”

“Good,” Courfeyrac said before closing his eyes again. “Will you be okay?”

“Me? I don’t think you should be worried about me,” Combeferre said, though his vision was still blurred around the edges. “I’m okay."

“Good,” Courfeyrac said again. “I’m okay, too.”

* * *

Enjolras wandered back to Grantaire’s station at the waiting room of the clinic. He drew up a chair of his own, bumping it forward with his knees until it was closer to the table. He lowered himself into the chair carefully, holding his injured arm close to his chest. Grantaire paused in his work for a moment, the hand clutching the antibacterial wipe suspended in the air over a gash extending from a younger man’s wrist to the inside of his forearm.

“How can I help?” Enjolras inquired. “There must be something.”

“Just keep me company for a while.”

“That I can do,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire looked pointedly at the arm bound up in a sling and asked, “How's your arm?” His hand resumed its motion and he focused back on the patient.

“Well, it’s better than it was yesterday,” Enjolras said.

“Did you get to rest this morning? Before your shift?” Grantaire asked as he scrutinized the cut. He pressed a thick square of gauze to it. He frowned at Enjolras’ silence. “I don’t know why I even asked.”

Enjolras tilted his head until he was staring down at the floor. “You already know that I didn’t.”

“You’re never going to feel any better if you don’t give yourself time to recover,” Grantaire said evenly.

“I know, but Feuilly had something interesting to show me,” Enjolras reasoned. “You wouldn’t have wanted to stay home and rest either. Trust me.”

“Oh?” Grantaire prompted. He advised the patient to staunch the bleeding until someone was available to properly give him stitches. “Where is Feuilly, anyway?”

Enjolras furrowed his brow. “Don’t you know how to do stitches?”

“Yes, I’d much rather leave it to the real doctors.” He sighed. “I should stick to what I know, which admittedly isn’t much, but...” He trailed off. He gestured the next person over with a wave of his hand. “Feuilly?” he prompted again.

“He was going to come with more people,” Enjolras explained. “He was still organizing them in the parking lot when we left with Courfeyrac and Jehan.”

In response, Enjolras edged himself out of his chair and went to look out the front door, in the vague hope that he'd be in time to watch Feuilly turn up. His free arm crossed over his stomach and his fingertips clutched at his side. His eyes widened as he angled himself so that he could look down the street.

“Grantaire, I think you should see this,” he said slowly.

The sun was just beginning to set, hanging over the remnants of the Wall in the distance. The slant of sunlight fell across the street, illuminating the cloud of dust that had been blown from the wreckage site to the streets of the city. It hung in the air above the pavement and the black of roads, creating a false illusion of fog. One by one, outlines emerged from the illusory fog. A pair of two men hobbled forward, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders for support. Their shoes were dusted with the remnants of the collapsed concrete. A lone woman clutched at her stomach and stumbled forward. Another man had a younger woman cradled in his arms. It seemed like each time he blinked, yet another person emerged from the cloud of dust. After another moment, he was able to differentiate between the grey of the dust and the white of the snowflakes that were only just beginning to fall from the sky. 

Enjolras heard a sharp intake of breath, though he wasn't sure if he'd made the noise or if it'd been Grantaire. “They look like ghosts,” he murmured. He turned, only to find his own sense of unease mirrored in Grantaire's face. Grantaire's expression shifted and he nudged the empty chair at his table with the side of his foot. "Looks like I'm going to need your help, after all." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to [Una](http://marcobodttt.tumblr.com/) and [Jenny](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com) for all their encouragement and kind words. :)


	9. Chapter 9

Grantaire and Enjolras exchanged an astonished look with one another as the implications of what was happening dawned on them. Grantaire hurried back to his station to finish with his remaining patient. He then hastened to inform Combeferre and Joly, who were both already elbows deep in blood, of the impending arrivals.

Meanwhile, Enjolras jogged about halfway down the block to meet a woman in the street who was clutching her stomach. She was no longer moving forward but was instead staggering sideways. As Enjolras moved closer, he noticed that her pupils were two very different sizes, revealing disproportionate glimpses of her hazel irises.

“Do you need help?” he called out. He held his uninjured hand out in front of him. She blinked at him without seeming to comprehend what he was saying. He took the initiative to drape her arm over his shoulder to support her. “Can you tell me your name?” he asked. Firmly placing one foot in front of the other, they proceeded down the sidewalk to back the clinic.

She groaned. Her fingernails dug through the fabric of Enjolras’ shirt and into the skin of his shoulder.

“It's Kira,” she answered through clenched teeth, though a full minute had passed since his question. “We couldn’t wait for cars to transport us,” she said through clenched teeth. “It was faster to walk.”

“You walked all the way here?” Enjolras repeated incredulously. He tightened his own grip around her waist and then reminded himself to relax in case she was injured there. “I promise we’ll take good care of you.”

She nodded. When she looked back up again, Enjolras noticed the snowflakes that had landed on her eyelashes. The moisture from the snow, already melted on her cheeks, mingled with the trail of tears down her face. Her face was bright red from the sting of the wind chill, and her lower lip was trembling.

“What is it?” Enjolras inquired, the pitch of his voice rising in alarm. They were only a few feet away from the clinic doors now.

“My girlfriend,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse. She paused and turned her head to cough. The dust clung stubbornly to the lining of her throat. “I didn’t want to leave her, but I had to. I had to,” she repeated, clamping her eyes tightly shut.

“We’ll get her, alright?” Enjolras promised. “Right now, we have to focus on you.”

The woman shook her head frantically. “Her head was caved in and there was blood everywhere. I don’t think there’s anything you can do for her,” she said. He could hear the fracture of fear in her voice. Enjolras eased her over the threshold of the clinic and helped her to lower herself down into an empty folding chair. Joly caught sight of them, and Enjolras watched his approach out of the corner of his eye. He squatted down on his knees until he was at the same eye level as the woman.

“We’ll bring her back to you,” Enjolras said firmly. “As soon as my friend Bossuet gets back, I want you to describe where you left her to him. But the doctor needs to take care of you first.”

Joly extended a hand to her, and she accepted it. She laid a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder as she passed. Her fingers ghosted over the places where she had left half-moon indents on his collarbone. “Thank you,” she said.

Enjolras dropped back into the chair next to Grantaire. He leaned forward and kneaded his stinging eyelids with his fingers. “I wish we had more cars,” he said. “We have Bossuet and Bahorel escorting people, but that’s not good enough.”

Grantaire did not respond. He was occupied with trying to figure out how to deal with someone who had a piece of metal rod wedged into his left leg. It looked as if he had fallen directly on top of it.

There was a crackle from the radio sitting on the waiting room desk. Enjolras cupped it in his hands and twisted a knob at the top of the device to hone in on the incoming signal. He pressed it close to his ear to listen to the message.

A flood of relief washed over him at the news. “Reinforcements are coming,” he announced. His gaze swept over the waiting room. “If you all could be patient for just a little while longer, I promise we will get to you soon.”

* * *

Combeferre blinked rapidly, willing the world to come back into focus. Hours had passed since his last break. The faces of the patients he treated were beginning to blur together after the arrival of those who had walked from the Wall.

The door clicked closed behind Joly as the two conferred in the office that they shared, jolting Combeferre out of his stupor. Combeferre forced himself to concentrate on Joly’s blue eyes. They had a certain kind of brightness in them that did not seem to have dulled under the strain of treating so many patients. 

“Reinforcements?” Combeferre repeated. He used his index finger to pry apart the blinds in Joly’s office. Two inches of snow had accumulated in front of the clinic since he'd last had a chance to look outside. “From where?”

“I have connections at the hospital about twenty minutes from here,” Joly explained. He massaged his temples with circular motions of his fingertips. “They were able to pull together some volunteers to help us out." He paused and then added, "I'm going to ride with the patients who need to be transported."

“So, I’ll be watching over the clinic,” Combeferre finished, the gears in his brain turning slower than usual. He began to draw up a list of tasks he needed to accomplish in Joly’s absence, the first of which included hunting down a cup of coffee.

“No. They'll watch over the clinic for us," he corrected. Combeferre’s neck cracked as he craned his head to look at him. “You’ll be going home with Feuilly."

Combeferre opened his mouth to protest that he had a perfectly good apartment nearby, but Joly stopped the onslaught of his protests with a raised hand. “I think it’s better if you aren’t alone right now, especially after everything that’s happened."

Joly detected a flicker of concern, a question that voiced itself in the slight downturn of Combeferre’s lips. Joly’s hand found its way to Combeferre’s shoulder. Not failing to note the tension in his muscles, he gave it a squeeze. “I’ll watch over him,” he promised.

Combeferre turned to face the other man. His lips curved into a lopsided smile, and he moved to envelope Joly in a hug. Combeferre could feel Joly’s forearms tense in surprise and then relax. He rested his forehead on the slope of Combeferre’s shoulder with a sigh and allowed himself to shut his eyes. For the moment, all he had to do was breathe. 

“Thank you. For everything,” Combeferre said, his breath warm against the side of Joly’s face. From behind them, they heard a sharp rap of knuckles against the wooden door. Combeferre patted Joly’s back as a final gesture of his gratitude and then pulled away to admit the visitor.

A man with the brightest red hair Combeferre had ever seen waited patiently on the other side of the door frame. He clasped his hands in front of him. “Is this a good time?” he wondered.

From inside the room, Joly gestured with a wave of a hand for him to enter. “Combeferre, this is Feuilly. I don’t think you two have officially met,” Joly said as the two exchanged a handshake.

“Things were a bit hectic at the Wall, and I don’t think you were at the club when I met everyone else,” Combeferre said. “Courfeyrac said something about a warehouse?”

“Yes,” Feuilly said without offering any additional information. “I’ve heard good things about you. Really good things.”

“Oh,” Combeferre managed, a slight blush lighting up his cheeks. “I hope I won't disappoint you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Feuilly replied with a slight incline of his head. “You won't.”

At observing the quizzical look on Combeferre’s face, Joly beamed proudly and Feuilly’s lips drew up in a tight grin.

“Anyone who takes care of my friends is good enough for me,” Feuilly explained. “And Enjolras tells me that his elbow is healing quite well thanks to you.”

“Well, I didn’t do it alone,” Combeferre deflected. His gaze darted to Joly, who had now taken his spot by the window. “Elbow relocation is a two person job.”

“But you’re the one who noticed,” Joly said with a shrug.

“Regardless, thank you,” Feuilly said. “I wish I could promise you that he'd be the last of our injured friends, but that would be a lie. We have some pretty dangerous hobbies.”

“So I’ve heard,” Combeferre replied. “And I suppose a collapsing Wall doesn’t help matters much, either.”

"Ah, speak of the devil," Feuilly said as Enjolras peered into the doorway to the office. He held a crackling radio in his palm.

“The reinforcements are here,” he announced. Joly peered out the blinds again as a squelch of wheels on the pavement outside announced their arrival. Four black SUV’s pulled up in front of the clinic, parallel parking along the sidewalks. Three additional ambulances pulled up alongside them.

Joly hastened out to greet them, some of the doctors he knew from his own time working at the hospital. They exchanged a few words of greeting before splitting up into the waiting room to assess what needed to be done next. The patients who needed critical care were already stabilized and awaiting ambulance transport. Meanwhile, Grantaire treated what remained of his queue, bandaging bruises and stitching cuts.   
  
Feuilly trailed on Combeferre’s heels as he gathered together his belongings from his office and discarded his blood-stained gloves in a red sterile bin.

“My car is right outside,” Feuilly said with a gesture toward the front door. Combeferre glanced down the hallway. Feuilly followed the trajectory of his gaze, continuing to watch as both Courfeyrac and Jehan were conveyed out of the examination rooms on gurneys. Combeferre led the way over to the gurney, which was pushed by two women in sleek black paramedic uniforms.

Combeferre readjusted the blanket that had slipped from Jehan’s shoulders, and then moved on to fuss over the one wrapped around Courfeyrac. “Don’t you worry about me,” Courfeyrac said. He folded his arms over his stomach and attempted to smile. Combeferre wanted to respond, but couldn't find the proper words. He settled for a pat on the arm instead. 

They accompanied the gurneys outside, and Feuilly paused so that Combeferre could watch Joly directing the two of them into the same ambulance. Combeferre adjusted the strap of his backpack over his shoulders, feeling satisfied that the clinic and the remaining patients were suitably provided for, while Feuilly led the way to his car in silence.

They both adjusted their seat belts and Feuilly cranked the key in the ignition. A current of hot air blew through the vents. He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel.

“How tired are you?” Feuilly finally asked.

“Not very,” Combeferre admitted. His head was reeling. The memory of Courfeyrac showing up in his apartment seemed like it had happened months ago, instead of only hours ago. He couldn't believe how quickly everything had changed. 

“What would you think about a detour?” Feuilly proposed.

“I love detours,” Combeferre said.

"Hm. That sounds familiar." Feuilly shifted the car into drive and peeled away from the curb. The ride passed in relative silence as Feuilly drove through the city. Snow stuck to the dashboard as the city streets eventually turned into the coastal highway. After about half an hour of driving north, Feuilly pulled off the exit and followed a winding road. Combeferre watched as trees with snow-coated branches passed by outside.  
  
Feuilly switched off the headlights, and the car idled in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. The windows were streaked with grime and the heavy steel door half hung off of its rusty hinges. The ground behind it had a visible incline, and he wondered if he'd be able to see the ocean if he kept on walking past the warehouse. 

“I imagine that this is all kinds of risky,” Combeferre said. His hands needed something to do, so he busied them with readjusting the scarf around his neck. He then burrowed them deep into the folds of his coat pockets.

“You’ve caught on, have you?” Feuilly remarked. From the light of the single streetlamp streaming in through the car door, Combeferre could make out the corners of Feuilly’s eyes crinkling as he smiled. Something about the expression on his face combined with the glow of his green eyes was enough to put Combeferre at ease.

Combeferre focused on the sight of the warehouse again. He scanned the outside for any clues as to its purpose, but there wasn’t even a proper address on the front of the building. The paint, which might have been beige in some other lifetime, was cracked and peeling off the walls. The glass panes in the windows facing the street were cracked and shattered in some places. He squinted and noticed that the steel door was wedged open to admit them.

“Before we go in, I thought we should have a little talk,” Feuilly said. His hands were now folded in his lap. "It won't take long." 

“Alright,” Combeferre consented, preparing himself for yet another test he needed to pass. He still hadn't removed his gaze from the worn-down exterior of the building.

“Why do people build walls?” Feuilly inquired. “Or try to build them, at least?”

Combeferre hesitated. “Is this a trick question?”

“No." 

Combeferre considered his answer for a moment. “Walls help to keep something unwanted out,” he tried.

“True. But in this case, the Wall serves a dual purpose. It seems a bit simplistic to put it this way, but it also helps to keep certain things in their place.”

“And by _things_ you mean _people_?” Combeferre clarified.

“I do.” Feuilly nodded. “The thing is, the construction of the Wall is an excuse. Building it prevents a certain portion of people from living in the safety of the country’s interior. That isn’t their fault, of course. They didn’t choose not to be able to afford housing there. The problem is that they're incredibly vulnerable when they live here on the coastline.”

“But there are certain choices we can make to help out those people,” Combeferre said, picking up where Feuilly left off. “That’s why I decided to move here in the first place.”

“And for that I commend you. It was a noble choice,” Feuilly said. “However, we want to take the next step in the wake of more and more Jaegers being decommissioned or destroyed, whichever one happens to come first. Of course, we'll be there to help people who have been hurt, but we also want to have the power to stop that from happening in the first place.”

“Protection,” Combeferre said.

“Prevention,” Feuilly corrected. He paused long enough for Combeferre to turn and make eye contact with him over the center console. “Look, I know that you know we’re building a Jaegar. I also know that Enjolras let you see some of the blueprints. But I wanted you to understand _why_.”

“I understand,” Combeferre assured him.

“It isn’t the people’s fault that they're stuck here. They deserve more than what they have right now," he said. The phrase seemed so practiced that it made Combeferre wonder how many times he'd said it before. 

“I agree with you.” For once in his life, Combeferre didn't know what else to say.

“I think we both know that the Wall won’t keep the Kaiju out. I mean, it would have to stand on its own without collapsing in order to do that, and we’ve both seen how well that’s working out," he continued. "That’s the reason why we're working so hard to make our Jaeger functional.” Feuilly ended his speech by easing his keys out of the ignition. “Now, this project of ours is unauthorized by the government and is most certainly illegal. Do you still wish to continue?”

Combeferre didn’t hesitate this time. "Yes."

“Good,” Feuilly said. The slamming of the car door behind him dislodged the layer of snow that had collected on the car since they had pulled into the parking lot. Combeferre met him at the front of the car.

The two wedged open the heavy metal door and crossed through the warehouse. Several flats of wood and a few empty crates lay coated with dust on the concrete floor. They reached the back left corner of the building, where a white tarp and several sheets of scrap metal hid the entrance to rusted elevator doors.

Feuilly punched in a key code containing both letters and numbers, prompting a tile in the wall to rotate and reveal a thumb scanner. Combeferre furrowed his brow.

“What's the matter?” Feuilly asked as he held his thumb up to be scanned. The light below the scanner turned from blinking red to a solid green.

“Why do you need the sheet metal and the tarp if it’s only hiding a fingerprint scanner?” he wondered. "Seems kind of redundant." 

“It keeps out inquisitive eyes,” Feuilly replied. As a set of elevator doors materialized and opened with a strident scraping sound, Feuilly said, “Have you ever seen a Jaeger before?”

“Only on the television,” Combeferre said truthfully. He estimated that the elevator traveled in the downward direction for a minute before opening again. In front of him was a large open space about the size of five football fields combined. Its high vaulted ceilings formed a circular dome overhead. Their shoes squeaked on sleek black tile, which seemed to shine brightly in comparison with the dusty concrete floor that they just left behind. At the opposite side of the room, there were three rectangular spaces, equidistant from one another. Three separate garage doors, painted a drab grey color, were positioned behind them.

Only one space had a Jaeger positioned within the confines of bright yellow paint.

“This was going to be a fully operational Shatterdome,” Feuilly explained. “It has docking space for three Jaegers, which makes it much smaller than the ones in Anchorage and Los Angeles.”

“But at least it would have been something,” Combeferre said. “How did you find it?”

“I used to work for them,” Feuilly replied.

“For them?” Combeferre repeated. “For the Jaeger Initiative?”

“Yes,” Feuilly said. “I memorized a list of unfinished Shatterdomes while I was still working there. However, as of two years ago, they no longer had any need for my services.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Combeferre said.

"It's alright," Feuilly said as he led the way through the Shatterdome. Combeferre imagined it would have been bustling with activity if it were staffed like an operational unit. He imagined the hum of their voices, building on the memory of the people gathered at the club and amplifying it ten-fold. "I've moved on to more important things," Feuilly was saying now. 

The only sound now was the scuffing of their shoes on the tile as they took a pathway that led off somewhere to the right. There were two other paths framed by solid red paint: one that Combeferre assumed led to the Jaeger and another one that curved around the perimeter of the loading area.

Two more elevator rides took them up to the control room, a place with enormous windows that overlooked the Jaeger docking site. The florescent lights flickered to life overhead as Feuilly pushed two rolling chairs in front of the single operational control desk. He motioned for Combeferre to take a seat, but he made no move to start any of the computers.

“It shouldn’t take too long to bring you up to speed,” Feuilly said while situating himself in his own chair. "The Jaeger was mostly complete when we got here,” he began, already anticipating Combeferre’s questions. “It needed some adjustments, but the framework was sound.”

“Do you know who left it behind?”

“No, and we don’t know why they didn’t take it with them. It doesn't even have a name, which is unusual but not unheard of. We’ve also had to build the suits for the pilots entirely on our own, and we’re still trying to figure out how to configure the Drift.”

“Alright, but where did the material for the suits come from?” Combeferre wondered. "That's not exactly the kind of thing you can pick up in a convenience store." 

“We have runners that trade money and other goods for the parts we need in the black market,” Feuilly replied, rotating slightly to the left as he answered the question.

“There’s a black market for Jaeger parts? Seriously?” Combeferre said, unable to conceal his surprise.  
  
Feuilly laughed at the look of wide-eyed wonder on Combeferre’s face. “If you know where to look,” he said. “Bahorel and Grantaire both go on runs for us.”

Combeferre let his eyes sweep over the control room and over the floor of the loading area while he mulled over the information. 

“So, what do you think?” Feuilly finally asked. He raised a hand to swipe a stray piece of hair away from his eyes.

“I think that this is quite the operation,” Combeferre said carefully. "You've already done a lot more than I expected." 

“There's still plenty left to do, I assure you. We still need to configure the Drift and decide who's going to pilot it," Feuilly continued. "Would you like to help out?"

Combeferre leaned forward in his seat and smiled, ready to accept the challenge he was now confronted with. “Count me in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay between chapters! 
> 
> As always, all my love and gratitude goes out to [Jenny](http://j-j-k.tumblr.com/) for her help and her encouragement with this project. :)


	10. Chapter 10

Only a few stars were still shining when Combeferre and Feuilly returned to the city. Feuilly elected to follow a frontage road that ran parallel to the Wall, approaching it from the north. Combeferre tried to set aside the thoughts of the Jaeger and the Drift that were heavy in his head by focusing on the sight of Wall. This section was still standing, the same of which could not be said about the southern stretch. Combeferre recalled one of the comments he'd heard when the Jaeger pilot visited the club about its height and wondered if this was the same section where that particular group of men had been working. It seemed like all of that had happened years ago instead of only a few short days ago. Combeferre marveled at the realization that the calamity had created a clear divide in the telling of time. Now everything would fall into one of two categories: before the collapse of the Wall and after.

The click of Feuilly’s turn signal sounded as he made a left turn. He followed a straight road east for another two miles until they reached a neighborhood of government-issued housing. The car slowed and rolled to a stop in the driveway of a single story house with fading yellow paint. All the windows visible from the front of the street were coated with a thick layer of dust from rubble cloud blown in by the frigid winter wind.

“You live here?” Combeferre said, unable to conceal his awe. The house was at least five times the size of his own apartment space.

“I think it was a fluke. Why else would they give such a big house to a single person?” Feuilly said as they both collected their belongings from the car. “I assumed that the government officials sent me to the wrong address when I first got here. But if they did, they never realized their mistake.”

He walked side by side with Combeferre, neither moving ahead to lead the way nor falling behind. A pair of double French doors with a stain glass pattern in the shape of an inverted cross, strikingly elegant in comparison with the rest of the fading house, admitted them into the front hallway. Feuilly took him on a short tour, making sure to point out the kitchen and the bathroom as they passed. Combeferre was surprised to feel heated air flowing out of the vents. Feuilly really had gotten lucky.

“This is where you’ll be sleeping,” Feuilly said after he finished pointing out his own bedroom. He cracked open another door and gestured for Combeferre to lead the way in. Combeferre was confronted with a sparsely furnished guest room. A full bed was nestled into the furthest corner, made up with a beige duvet and three white pillowcases. The blinds near the window at the head of the bed were cracked open to allow early morning sunlight to stream into the room. There was also a small dresser with a lamp on it, pushed against the same wall as the door. 

“There are spare clothes in the dresser, if you want to change,” Feuilly said, his gaze flickering to Combeferre's stained scrubs. He stood in the doorway, still hanging on to the doorknob. “The stuff in there is a bit mismatched, but I’m sure there’s something that will fit you.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre said, moving to set down his backpack at the end of the bed. He fiddled with the zipper as he hastened to clarify his statement. “Thank you for trusting me and for bringing me here.”

“You’re welcome,” Feuilly replied. He lingered in the doorway for another moment. “Just so you know, we have sort of an unspoken rule that no one’s allowed to go home alone after bad things happen,” he explained. “That’s why Joly sent you with me. In case you were wondering.”

“I think that’s a good rule,” Combeferre replied. The mattress cushion dipped as he took a seat on the bed. “Makes sense.”

“More often than not, they all end up here because it’s the only place that has enough room to fit everyone,” he continued. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Bahorel or Grantaire stopped by later.”

Feuilly was about to say something else but held himself back. He observed Combeferre’s reddened eyelids and his slightly trembling lower lip. He relinquished his grip on the doorknob with a sigh. He crossed the room and eased himself down next to Combeferre. His legs dangled over the edge of the bed, his toes barely touching the carpeted floor. “Are you okay?” he asked. He hung his head and looked at his hands, which were folded in his lap.

“I’m alright,” Combeferre said. He held his hands between his knees to prevent Feuilly from seeing them shake.

“I remember the first time I had to deal with that many casualties on one day,” Feuilly said, tracing the ridges of his own knuckles with his eyes. “I was anything but okay.”

“It’s different from medical school,” Combeferre said, his voice no louder than a whisper. “I mean, of course I knew it would be that way, but it’s really…” He trailed off as he struggled to come up with the right word.

“Overwhelming?” Feuilly suggested. “In your defense, there probably wasn’t a class to teach you how to process something like this." 

Combeferre was able to muster a smile at that. “No, but that would have been incredibly helpful.”

“I think you’ll feel better after you get some rest,” Feuilly said. “I’ll be next door if you need anything.” He straightened, his hands wrapped tightly around his upper thighs.

“Work on the Wall has really done a number on your knees, hasn’t it?” Combeferre observed. He removed his glasses momentarily to rub his stinging eyes. All of his friends seemed to bear traces of working on the Wall. The sight of Joly hovering over Bossuet’s cuts from the exposed metal as well as Courfeyrac’s concussion and Jehan’s crushed legs immediately came to mind. Not even Feuilly had been exempt from injury.

“What can I say?” Feuilly shrugged. “The concrete is unforgiving.”

Combeferre reached over to his backpack and dug through the front pocket until his fingertips brushed against the packet of pain medication he kept there for emergency purposes. He offered it to Feuilly, the package crinkling between his thumb and middle finger.

“I’m fine,” he said with a shake of his head. “I think you should save it for someone who needs it.”

“Why do you think I’m giving it to you?” Combeferre said. He simultaneously wondered what it was with this group of people and their aversion to pain meds. If anything, he had to applaud them for always wanting to save their resources for people who might potentially need it more. But there was no need to be noble now. “I’m tired of seeing my friends hurting. Please take it.”

Feuilly held out his palm, his fingers closing around the plastic wrapping. “You’re a good man, Combeferre,” he said. “I hope you’re able to rest. Feel free to crank on the radio in the living room if you need something to listen to. Government broadcasts are usually enough to put me to sleep.”

The door shut quietly behind him. Combeferre could hear the padding of his feet against the carpet as he walked to his bedroom. His head was pounding and his shoulders ached. He only had enough energy to slip off his shoes and pull the single quilt draped over the edge of the bed frame over his shoulders. He tipped over, his cheeks wet before his head hit the pillow.

Lectures floated through his brain, reminding him of the therapeutic effects of tears. But all of the things that he had learned in school seemed to exist in a different dimension than the one he was currently inhabiting. His thoughts collided in his head. He let them wash over him all at once instead of trying to follow the thread of a single thought. He absentmindedly hoped that Courfeyrac and Jehan were properly taken care of, and he hoped that Joly took a break soon. He should have gone to supervise, but he was exhausted. He wondered if there would ever be a time in his life when he wasn’t so tired that he ached all the way down to his bones.

He woke again as the sun was setting. He rolled over and reached for his glasses, which had fallen off his face and onto the duvet. Another knock sounded on the door, and Joly poked his head into the room. “Can I come in?”

“Yes." Combeferre curled his feet up, and Joly took a seat near the end of the bed. Combeferre noted that he looked like he had slept. His hair was damp and resting against the nape of his neck, leaving a small stain on the collar of his shirt. He smelled vaguely of coconut.

“How many did we lose?” Combeferre asked first. He pulled his legs up tightly to his chest, locking his arms around his knees.

“Three,” Joly answered. “The girl with the stomach injury and irregular pupils, one of the concussion victims, and the patient with a skull fracture. But the good news is that both Jehan and Courfeyrac are going to be okay. Bahorel is heading over to the hospital in a few hours to take Bossuet’s place, if you’d like to go with him.”

Combeferre nodded to acknowledge the comment. “Does anyone know why the Wall collapsed?”

“No. There are some speculations as to a faulty internal infrastructure, but no one knows for sure yet.” A minute passed in complete silence. “How are you holding up?”

“Me?” Combeferre’s gaze was fixed on the dresser across the room. One of the drawers was missing a knob and its surface was a collection of chips and dings of varying sizes and lengths. He thought he saw a grey hat hanging out from one of the lower drawers, but he blinked again and it was gone. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Joly edged closer to where Combeferre was curled up.

“How are you so calm?” Combeferre wondered. He felt like he was clenching every muscle in his body at the same time. “I feel like I might burst.”

“That’s completely understandable,” Joly said, resting a hand on Combeferre’s foot. “Why don’t you come out and join us? Feuilly’s making dinner.”

Combeferre shrugged off his quilt. Joly offered him a hand up and then wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they walked into the kitchen. The aroma of grilled cheese and tomato soup wafted over from where Feuilly was hunched over the stove.

“Look who’s up!”

Combeferre craned his head to see who had spoken. Splayed on one of the beige two-cushioned couches was Bahorel. He was occupied with twisting the knobs of the radio, searching for a signal. Combeferre heard the snap of the finger he had jolted back into place and saw the blood splattered on his chin. He shook his head to dislodge the memory. On the other couch, Enjolras was curled into Grantaire’s side, fast asleep with his head resting on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire raised a single hand in greeting. As Joly steered him over to the card table serving as a makeshift kitchen table, Combeferre made a mental note to check on Enjolras’ elbow later.

“What did I tell you?” Feuilly said, twisting his neck over his shoulder. “They all end up here.”

Joly drew a chair up to the table. Feuilly balanced two bowls and two small plates on his palms and forearms with the practiced ease of someone who'd had experience as a waiter. Combeferre thanked him as both were set in front of him but he made no move to touch his plate. The smell of food was enough to rouse the rest. They congregated around the table as Feuilly distributed the rest of the food, squeezing as many chairs around its circumference as possible. Combeferre ended up with Bahorel on one side and Feuilly on the other.

It seemed as though they could all sense what Combeferre was feeling, or else they were feeling the same way themselves. Feuilly reached for Combeferre, his calloused fingertips brushing over the back of Combeferre’s hand. Bahorel turned to grasp Joly’s hand. Grantaire threaded his fingers together with Enjolras’.

“We’re all going to be okay,” Feuilly said, slightly surprised at the words tumbling out of his mouth. Normally, Enjolras or Joly would be the ones making this kind of speech. He rotated slightly so that he could face Combeferre because he knew that he needed to hear his words the most. “Look, we’ve been through this before and it’s awful, but we’re here for you.” From across the table, Enjolras nodded to signal his agreement. 

“Can I add something?” Combeferre asked. He was unsure why he felt like he had to ask for permission. “Grantaire?”

He waited until Grantaire had lifted his head from where it had been hanging over his chest before saying, “Thank you for all your help. You did such a great job.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Joly chimed in.

Grantaire felt Enjolras tighten his grip around his hand, but he kept staring at Combeferre for fear of what he would see if he were to look at Enjolras. Grantaire couldn’t speak, but he hoped that the smile on his face would be enough to convey the things he couldn’t put into words.

* * *

Upon waking, Courfeyrac’s first thought was that the lights were too damn bright. The harsh white light aggravated the headache that throbbed behind his eyes. He could hardly see through the pain. He squinted until the shapes of the things in the room around him started to come into focus. He only had a vague recollection of being moved into a hospital room.

“Courf? You up?” he heard somewhere off to his right. “It’s about time. You’ve been out for two days.”

“Jehan?” Courfeyrac turned his head slowly, wishing at the same time that the stiffness in his neck would go away. He frowned and folded his arms over his chest, causing the needle of his IV to tug against his forearm. “How come you get to be near the window?”

Jehan smirked, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They must have felt bad for me, what with my crushed leg and all,” he said.

Courfeyrac’s head felt impossibly heavy against his pillow. “Do they think you’ll be able to walk again?”

“It’s too early to say,” Jehan said, his voice catching in his throat. He heard the hospital sheets rustle as Courfeyrac pushed them away from his body.

The blood rushed to Courfeyrac’s head all at once as he pulled himself out of bed, leaving him momentarily blind. When his vision cleared again, he reached out to wrap his fingers around the cool metal of his IV pole. He pushed it over to Jehan’s side of the room.

“Your hospital gown is hitching up,” Jehan observed as Courfeyrac shuffled over to him.

“Really?” he replied. “Better take a good look.”

“I’m glad your injury hasn’t changed you,” Jehan replied as he carefully maneuvered himself to the other side of the bed. The bed squeaked as the two searched for a comfortable position. Jehan sat up slightly so that Courfeyrac could tuck him under his arm.

“We’ll protect you, no matter what,” Courfeyrac said. He rested his head on top of Jehan’s, feeling more relaxed now that he could see ginger hair in his peripheral vision. “I promise you’ll be okay.”

“I know,” Jehan said. “But I was really looking forward to feeling what it’s like to be hooked into a Jaeger.” He didn’t make any move to staunch the tears flowing down his face.

“I’m really sorry. But there are still other things you can do,” he replied, hoping to provide a little consolation. “Feuilly is always saying that he could use another person in the control room.”

“I know that, too. I was just saying.” Jehan started to worry his lower lip between his teeth. “What am I gonna do, Courf? How am I going to get my rations if I can’t work on the Wall anymore?”

“There might not be a Wall to work on by the time we get back,” Courfeyrac said in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood. “We’ll help you find a way.”

Jehan didn’t want to think about the future that awaited him, a future that would be unkind to someone who couldn’t do manual labor. He was too tired to come up with a solution to his problem. He wasn’t even sure if one existed. What he needed right now was a distraction. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why were you late the other day? It’s not like you.” This was something that had been bothering him since the morning of the Wall collapse.

“Oh.” Courfeyrac’s head fell back against the pillow until he was staring straight up at the patterns in the drywall on the ceiling. He could still feel the ghost of Combeferre’s fingers adjusting the hat on his head. He wondered what happened to that hat. It had been a good hat. 

Jehan lifted his own head so that he could scrutinize Courfeyrac’s face. “Why weren’t you assigned to the same section as the rest of us? I meant to come find you at lunch but that didn’t quite work out.”

“I had to run an errand, and it ended up taking slightly longer than I anticipated,” he explained, skirting around the question.

Jehan narrowed his eyes. He sensed he was not getting the full truth. “An errand?” he repeated.

“Enjolras told me to take a set of blueprints to Combeferre. So, I took it to him and ended up giving him a ride to the clinic. It was on the way.”

“And the blueprints had to be delivered first thing in the morning?”

“Well, no, but - ”

Jehan’s cheeks puffed up as he drew in a breath through his nose.

“I might have also brought him tea,” Courfeyrac admitted. “The good kind from the corner shop.”

Jehan blew his breath out noisily through his mouth. “You were late because you were _flirting_?”

“Yes.” Courfeyrac didn’t deny anything now that he had been found out. He turned to Jehan with an inexplicable softness in his eyes.

Jehan didn’t merit his confession with a response. He merely crossed his arms. “Unbelievable,” he said, feigning astonishment. This was actually the most sensible thing Courfeyrac had done recently in pursuit of someone. He was secretly pleased.

“Is it, though?” Courfeyrac said with a touch of over-exaggeration. His face fell as he remembered something else. “Jehan, he lives in an apartment off Fifth without any heat. Is there any way we could get him in with Feuilly or Enjolras?”

“Probably. I’m sure there’s room for one more somewhere.” He paused to consider his next question. “Let me ask you something else. Why do you want to do all of this for someone you just met?”

Courfeyrac heaved a sigh and tried to explain. “I really like him, Jehan. Even though it made me late and put me on the wrong section of the Wall, I would do it over again to see the look on his face when I showed up on his doorstep. No one has ever looked at me like that before.”

Courfeyrac still couldn’t identify what it was about that look that had struck him to the core, but he loved it all the same.

Jehan reached out to give Courfeyrac a pat on the cheek. “He’s been here twice since you’ve been out, in case you were wondering.”

Courfeyrac was now smiling at something only he could see.

“You are really far gone, aren’t you?” Jehan marveled. It was incredibly difficult, but he suppressed the urge to continue teasing Courfeyrac.

“You have no idea,” Courfeyrac said as he drew Jehan back into his embrace.


	11. Chapter 11

_February 2022_

If there was anything that Grantaire was thankful for at this particular moment, it was that the rest of his friends were too busy to worry about him. He sat on a stool at the end of the bar furthest from the entrance to the club, slouched over the counter. His posture had never been admirable but it was especially horrid today. He moved his glass of vodka from his right hand to his left. As he moved it, the glass snagged on the ring marks that had accumulated from a variety of condensing drinks over the years. He watched one of the ice chips struggling to remain afloat and continued to watch as it melted and disappeared beneath the surface.

He cringed as he heard a sharp voice somewhere off to his right. “Isn’t it a little early for a drink?”

He didn’t have to turn to put a face to the words. He would have known that voice with his eyes closed. It was the voice that filled his dreams and the voice he would walk through fire for. But he didn’t say anything that would have hinted at his inner monologue. Instead he said, “You should know by now that it is  _never_ too early for a drink.”

Grantaire swiveled on the bar stool just as the slight smile appeared on Enjolras’ face. He had a fleeting thought of a ray of sunshine shining through parted clouds. Enjolras propped his elbow against the bar and cradled his temple in his palm as he focused on Grantaire. Grantaire’s gaze wandered down the length of Enjolras’ arm. The loose sleeves of his blue shirt no longer concealed a bandaged arm.

“What do you think about all this?” Enjolras said, using the gesture of his tilted head to indicate the entirety of the club.

Grantaire considered his answer as he took another swig of his drink. He had already spent a copious amount of time observing the decorations that Courfeyrac had worked so hard to set up before Enjolras had arrived. The whole club, which they had shut down for an entire day for preparations and the party, seemed impossibly large without the usual amount of people clustered around the bar and relaxing in booths. It was the only time that Grantaire had ever felt lonely while perched on a barstool.

Off to his left, there was a cluster of yellow balloons with a placard propped up in front of it that read _HAPPY BIRTHDAY!_ in obnoxiously bright red letters. He still had no clue how Bahorel was able to procure such a luxury. He hadn’t seen balloons in a long time.

Above his head, multicolored lights were strung up around the perimeter of the ceiling, casting soft light on the hardwood flooring. Enjolras was haloed in the glow of a red light, while his own vision was filled with a soft shade of green.

“I think Joly will love it,” Grantaire finally said.  
  
His chest felt tight as he remembered the reason why he started drinking in the first place. He had taken one shot to give him strength to watch Jehan walking through those doors on crunches and for the sight of Feuilly limping around with his sore knees. He’d taken a second one for when he’d have to look at Courfeyrac and try not to notice the jagged scar on his temple. He’d then nursed the first vodka to help him get through having to try and pretend not to notice the dark rings under Joly’s eyes from his long hours at the clinic. He downed the second so that he could try and numb the concern that gnawed at him whenever he noticed the deepening sadness lurking behind Combeferre’s eyes.

“How much longer do we have before everyone gets here?” he wondered. He was going to need some time to pull himself together.

Enjolras sought out the digital clock hanging on the opposite side of the room. He squinted to make out the numbers. “We have a while.”

“And Courfeyrac?”

“Went to pick up Combeferre,” Enjolras finished. Grantaire rolled his eyes as he finished off the remainder of his drink. He tilted it and swallowed until he could see the dull reflection of his own blue eyes mingling with the remaining drops of vodka clinging to the bottom of the glass.

“Why did you just roll your eyes?” Enjolras prompted, perplexed at Grantaire’s reaction.

“Nothing,” Grantaire said as he pushed the glass a couple of inches away from him with the back of his hand. Enjolras would always be clueless about some things. He didn’t have the energy in him to explain it right now.

“What do you say we go take a look at some of the blueprints while we wait for them?” Enjolras suggested. Grantaire nodded and edged off of the barstool. He stumbled a few steps forward and struggled to maintain his balance. Enjolras braced his arm and patiently waited for his world to stop spinning. What Enjolras didn’t know was that the sensation of his fingers wrapped around Grantaire’s arm did nothing to help the lopsidedness of his world. But he wasn’t going to complain.

Enjolras waited a few more moments and then threaded his fingers together with Grantaire’s. He led the way to the back room, and Grantaire kept his eyes straight in front of him because he was sure he'd falter if he looked too closely at anything at the club. It was full of subtle reminders of his friends. And once he starting thinking about that, it was like somehow his airways weren’t wide enough to allow him to take in all the breath that he needed to calm down.

The door clicked softly shut behind them. Enjolras had drawn the blinds of the window earlier in the day so that only the slightest hint of afternoon sunlight was permitted to enter. Enjolras scrutinized his face, his eyebrows furrowing as he detected something he didn’t like in Grantaire’s face.

“I’m fine,” Grantaire insisted, even though Enjolras hadn’t said anything.

“You’re not.” Enjolras had been through this routine often enough to know that harsh words wouldn’t make either of them feel better. Fighting fire with fire in order to wring an answer out of him rarely worked.

Instead, he relaxed the muscles in his forearms and shoulders. He softened the stern expression on his face and elevated himself on his tiptoes. He pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s lips. He hooked his arms around Grantaire’s neck, his wrists overlapping right at the nape of his neck. “What’s wrong?” he tried again.

The breath caught in Grantaire’s throat. Enjolras had been increasingly tender with him lately and he didn’t know what to make of it. He tried to scrape together an answer to reward Enjolras’ effort. “Our friends,” was all he could manage.  
  
Enjolras decided to change his grip. He moved his arms until they were entwined around Grantaire’s waist. He rested his cheek along the curve of his sternum.

Grantaire wondered if Enjolras could hear his heart skittering along his rib cage.

“Everyone’s okay,” Enjolras said in an attempt to reassure him. Grantaire closed his eyes and savored the way that the breath that conveyed Enjolras’ words fanned across his chest.

“They’re all hurting,” Grantaire tried again. “I wish I could help them, but I don’t know how.”

Enjolras filled in the empty spaces in what Grantaire had said. “You’re hurting, too.”

“Yeah.”

And knowing that words would never be enough, Enjolras tightened his grip and held on. He knew nothing he could possibly say about their progress on configuring the Drift or on putting the final touches on the Jaeger itself would be of any solace to Grantaire. Because all he could see was the pain and all he could feel was the heavy toll that it had taken on all of them.

“It’s going to be okay,” Enjolras repeated over and over again. He wasn’t sure if he was saying it to convince Grantaire or himself. 

“I know,” Grantaire said into Enjolras’ hair. Even though, deep down, he didn’t really believe it.

* * *

“Combeferre? Someone’s here to see you.”

Combeferre looked up from where he was sorting through a new shipment of gauze and bandages. It was a much needed shipment, seeing as their supplies had been steadily dwindling since the Wall collapse. His counter space was an organized mess - he had the bandages separated into three different piles according to length and was preparing to restock the bins in all the examination rooms. The sorting had been a way to soothe his mind. It was buzzing with equations and calculations concerning the Drift. It was all he'd been thinking about lately, now that they were getting extremely close to functionality.

“Don’t worry about those,” Joly said with a small wave of his hand. “I’ll finish it up for you.”

“Alright,” Combeferre replied. “What are you doing?”

“Just trust me.” Joly’s eyes were bright as he readjusted Combeferre’s shirt collar, correcting its lopsidedness. He pushed his glasses up from where they had fallen down to the bridge of his nose and brushed a stray lock of his hair out back away from his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. He stepped back and took a moment to appraise Combeferre from head to toe. Nodding his satisfaction, he motioned toward the waiting room with one hand. “Go on now.”

Combeferre’s curiosity was piqued as he headed down the hallway that connected the supply room and the waiting room. He paused to examine a fluorescent light that was flickering overhead. It was still bright enough to be functional, but it would need to be replaced soon.

“Combeferre?” Courfeyrac was at the end of the hallway, hovering right at the threshold between the waiting room and the hallway that branched off in the direction of the examination rooms.

Combeferre smiled as he took in the sight of Courfeyrac. His curly brown hair spilled out of the threadbare winter hat. It was bright red and a gift from Joly, but it was the slightest bit too small for his head. His cheeks were flushed bright pink from the bitter wind.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac said in greeting.

“What are you doing here?” Combeferre asked, trying hard to keep the tone of his voice steady. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his lab coat as he approached Courfeyrac. He stopped when he was close enough to feel some of the chill that Courfeyrac had brought inside with him.

Courfeyrac spared no time launching into a carefully rehearsed speech. “I know that we celebrated your birthday a while ago and we all agreed no gifts, but I got you something anyway. On my own. It only just came in.” He withdrew a rectangular package from where it had been stashed in the space between his coat and his sweater. He extended his hand with a hopeful smile of his face.

“Oh, Courfeyrac.” Combeferre could feel the beginnings of a blush warm his cheeks. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“No. Maybe not,” he conceded. “But I wanted to?” It came out sounding more like a question than a definitive statement.

“Well, thank you,” Combeferre said as he accepted the gift. 

“I’m sorry about the wrapping. I didn’t have any proper wrapping paper,” Courfeyrac lamented as he watched Combeferre scrutinize the makeshift newspaper covering. “Remember when we were kids and our parents would use the brightly colored stuff? And sometimes it even had designs on it?”

“Yes. I remember that. But newspaper works just as well,” Combeferre assured him. He slipped his thumb under the edge of the wrapping and carefully tore away the pieces of scotch tape holding the whole thing together. The paper fell away to reveal a slim notebook. Combeferre held the sleek black cover closer to his face, close enough that he could smell the crisp pages of new paper. Small letters near the bottom right corner read: "Sketchpad, 50 pages.”

Combeferre opened his mouth as if he was going to say something and then closed it. He swallowed. “I don’t even know what to say,” he finally managed.

“You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to,” Courfeyrac replied. “Do you like it, at least?”

“Of course,” Combeferre said quickly. His blinked, trying to quiet the cacophony of his thoughts. “I love it.”

“I know that you’re working so hard to figure out the Drift, which is amazing, by the way, and I thought maybe an actual sketchpad would be helpful? You know, to keep it all in the same place? Joly told me you’ve been using printer paper, which is completely fine, but - ”

“Courfeyrac?” Combeferre tried to interrupt.

“Wait, please let me finish.” Courfeyrac took a deep breath and met Combeferre’s gaze. “Grantaire mentioned seeing it on one of his runs a while back. I asked if he wouldn't mind nabbing one for you, and he came back with it last night. Oh, and there’s some graph paper wedged in the back, in case that works better for you.”

“Look, what I’m trying to say is…” Courfeyrac’s eyes flickered briefly to something over Combeferre’s shoulder and then he took a hesitant step closer. He ignored the sight of Joly leaned against the wall about ten feet away from them, making frenzied gestures with his hands. Combeferre’s face would have turned a brighter shade of red if he could've seen what was going on behind him. Courfeyrac ignored Joly and inhaled again. He blew out his breath slowly through his chapped lips. “Happy belated birthday.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre said again in a small voice. He held the notebook close to his chest. “This means so much to me.”

Courfeyrac held his arms open hopefully and Combeferre’s smile widened as he returned the hug, one armed, seeing as he still had the notebook wrapped in the other. Courfeyrac was tempted to rest his chin on Combeferre’s head, but he hesitated at the last minute. Combeferre pulled back and leaned forward to press a kiss to Courfeyrac’s cheek.

Combeferre seemed to second guess himself in that moment. “Was that an okay thing to do?” He asked with a grimace. 

“Yes,” Courfeyrac breathed. “But that wasn’t the only reason I stopped by.”

Combeferre took a step back, trying to regain his composure. A crease appeared in the middle of his forehead as his expression shifted. “You aren’t injured again, are you? Is your head hurting?”

“Thankfully, no,” Courfeyrac said. “But remember that thing we were talking about last night?"  
  
"Oh, right. That thing," he confirmed.   
  
"I was wondering if you'd like a ride?”

Combeferre thought briefly about the reminder that had flashed across the screen of his phone this morning, and a smile lit up his face. "Yes. I would." 

“Joly won’t mind if you leave a little early, will he?” 

“Not if I tell him I’m going with you,” Combeferre teased. "But he thinks we spend too much time together already.”

“What!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, feigning disbelief. His eyes flickered back to where Joly was still standing with his shoulder supported by the wall. He crossed his arms and bit his lower lip to suppress his laughter. “We don’t spend _enough_ time together, in my opinion.”

“I didn’t say I agreed with him,” Combeferre said with a shrug. “Let me just go get my stuff and we can go.”

As soon as the sentence left his lips, Joly ducked into a nearby examination room without making a sound. Courfeyrac watched as Combeferre disappeared and Joly peeked his head out of the room.

“I have no idea what you have planned but please bring him back safely,” Joly said, the tone of his voice hovering on the edge of sternness. “I will kill you if anything happens to him."

Courfeyrac held his hands up in a gesture of defense. “Okay, but I can’t make any promises,” he said.

Joly frowned, even though he knew Courfeyrac was only kidding. They hadn’t been able to joke like this in a long time. He thought they needed this kind of banter more often.

“Joly! I was just looking for you,” Combeferre said as he spotted him with his head poking out of the exam room.

“Yes, Courfeyrac already asked me and you can go,” Joly supplied for him. Combeferre fiddled with his scarf as he rejoined Courfeyrac.

“Have fun,” he said. He made a wave of his hands that said _go on_. “I’ll catch you later at the club.”

“See you,” Combeferre said over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Joly,” Courfeyrac said. He shot Joly a smile that was so warm that Joly would have released Combeferre from work early the next day just to see it again. He laughed to himself as he listened to the front door slam shut. The clinic settled into a dead silence as he headed back to the supply room to finish Combeferre’s abandoned work.

* * *

As he drove to the club a few hours later, Joly’s mind wandered to how he was going to explain the way Courfeyrac had been looking at Combeferre to Bossuet. It had been a long day, his neck ached from the way he was clenching his teeth, and he really needed a drink. Or three.

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he pulled up to the light in front of the club. His gaze wandered to the outside of the club. It was devoid of the collection of dinged cars that signaled the presence of the usual wall workers. In fact, his car was the only one in the whole lot.

His stomach churned uncomfortably as he pressed the button on his keys to lock his car. He couldn’t help but suspect that something was horribly wrong.

He made his way through the door and the small set of bells hung on the inside knob jingled. It was a leftover decoration from Christmas but everyone loved the sound it made so much that they decided to leave it where it was. The only source of light was a string of multicolored lights hung up with care along the perimeter of the ceiling.

Joly took another step forward and a quiet chorus of singing came from the hallway that led to the back room. He watched as his friends’ faces gradually became visible from the other side of the room. They were illuminated by the soft glow of burning candles on the cake that Courfeyrac was holding.

Courfeyrac held the rectangular cake in the palms of his hands and smiled widely as he sang. Combeferre stood off to Courfeyrac’s side and sang quietly, while Enjolras and Grantaire flanked his other side. Joly couldn’t help but wonder how they had coerced Bahorel into singing. Grantaire sang along and he even seemed to be enjoying himself.

At that point, he couldn’t see anything very clearly because his tears were blurring his vision. He had to rely on his other senses to tell him what was going on. He felt a hand threading into his own and heard the scrape of crutches against the hardwood flooring.

He reached up with his free hand to swipe the tears away from his cheeks. At his left side stood Bossuet with a wide grin plastered across his face and holding a bottle of champagne, while Jehan stood nearby, balancing on his crutches. Joly tightened his grip on Bossuet’s hand because his grasp was the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

He looked at each of his friends, their faces still lit up by the flames from the candles. Enjolras’ hand was still linked together with Grantaire’s.

Courfeyrac moved to place the cake at the end of the bar and then the group pressed closer to Joly.

Joly freed his hand and smiled as they exchanged hugs. He squeezed each one tightly and held them close to his chest. It was a bit difficult with Jehan, but he managed to hold him while Bossuet helpfully kept a grip on Jehan’s crutches. He hoped that his arms wrapped around each one of them would be a thank you enough because he was still struggling with forming actual words. He felt as though his heart might burst with love for all of them.

As Joly continued to struggle to come up with words, he couldn’t help but notice Combeferre take Courfeyrac’s hand when he didn’t think anyone else was looking. He opened his mouth to comment on it, but it was Grantaire’s turn to hug him at last.

Grantaire had never been much of a person to give hugs, but this time he didn’t hesitate. His arms locked around the base of Joly’s spine, and he rested his head on Joly’s shoulder. He hadn’t seen Joly this happy in a very long time and he was silently grateful to Courfeyrac for coming up with the idea in the first place and for being able to coordinate everything.

“Happy birthday, Joly,” Grantaire said.

“Thank you," he said. "Thank you to all of you," he repeated as Grantaire stepped away from him. His pulse throbbed in his throat and he opened his mouth to say something else. But he paused because he felt a burst of cold air rush into the room as the door opened again.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” Feuilly called out. His red hair was disheveled by the wind and his coat hung haphazardly over his clothes.

He had another coat draped over his arm with a pattern of two wings sown onto the back of the brown material.

“Happy birthday!” He presented the coat to Joly with a sly grin. “I thought you’d want to be the first to see.”

The wings extended across the back of the coat and looked as if they were about to take flight right off of the fabric. Embroidered along the top in white thread were the words he had proposed months earlier when they were trying to decide what to name the Jaeger. Apparently they had all liked his suggestion more than he'd realized.

Enjolras said, “We’re going to name it _Icarus Shining_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know it's been a while, but I have a double update for you tonight to compensate. Thank you for reading! :)


	12. Chapter 12

The sheets rustled as Combeferre turned over onto his side. His eyes sought the digital clock sitting on his night stand.

_4:33._

He rolled over onto his back and yanked his blanket over his chest. He stared at the patterns formed by the drywall in the ceiling. _If you fall asleep now, you can rest for another hour,_ he reasoned.

Ten more minutes passed. _Feuilly said you needed to be well rested,_ he tried again. As though somehow that reasoning would be enough to make his brain shut itself off and let him sleep.

His hand patted against the mattress as he felt his phone vibrate with an incoming message. He had to throw back the covers before it fell with a dull thud onto the floor. He crawled out of bed to retrieve it. But he was suddenly too tired to move again. He came to a rest sitting on the floor with his back supported by mattress, still lying flat on the floor.

_You sleeping?_

_Nope._

Another minute passed before the screen lit up with an incoming call.

“Morning,” Combeferre said as he answered it on the second ring.

“Good morning,” Courfeyrac greeted. “Today’s the day.”

Combeferre shut his eyes and tried to picture the expression that was surely on Courfeyrac’s face right now. The memory of the dimples that showed up whenever he smiled was enough to temporarily soothe the nerves that were causing his stomach to churn.

“I’m nervous,” Combeferre confessed. “I don’t want to mess anything up.”

“You won’t,” Courfeyrac replied. “Believe me, if anyone’s going to mess anything up, it’s going to be me.”

“That makes me feel slightly better.”

“Good.”

Combeferre’s mind drifted back to their progress with the Jaeger. He remembered the extensive training they had done in the previous week. Feuilly and Jehan decided that he and Courfeyrac would be the first to try out the Drift, followed by Grantaire and Enjolras.

He remembered the look of surprise that had crossed Grantaire’s face when he realized how well suited he was to Drift with Enjolras. He had done alright with Courfeyrac, but he didn’t stick to any type of strategy, which made him hard for Combeferre to predict. But the evidence was plainly in front of his face when he'd faced off against Enjolras, who'd been the only one who could decode his random striking. Neither had managed to score a hit on the other. Combeferre didn’t think he could remember a time when Enjolras had looked more proud.

“You’d think I’d be able to sleep after all this training plus work,” Combeferre said with a sigh. “I feel tired enough.”

“Well if you can’t sleep, what do you say we go over there and spar for a while?” Courfeyrac suggested.

“But it’s four in the morning?” Combeferre protested.

“So?”

Combeferre couldn’t find any other grounds to object. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep anyway with the pressure of such an important day ahead of him. “I’ll see you in fifteen."

* * *

As the two wandered through the abandoned Shatterdome, Combeferre listened to the scraping sound the soles of their shoes made on the concrete and couldn’t help but be reminded of his first visit. He had been intimidated by the immensity of it while Feuilly led him around. But now he knew his way around without having to worry about getting lost. The sole Jaeger on the launch pad seemed like an old friend by now, and he could lead the way to the sparring mat with his eyes shut.

They set their things down on one of the bleachers. Combeferre smiled to himself as Courfeyrac caught sight of the corner of the sketchbook poking through the space where he hadn't quite zipped up the pocket of his backpack all the way.

They set to work stretching without saying another word. Combeferre lowered himself onto the mat, which dipped as he placed his weight on it. He could see Courfeyrac stretching out of the corner of his eye. He squeezed his eyes shut and sent himself back into darkness.

All the stretching in the world wasn’t going to alleviate the tension he was feeling in this situation. As soon as he was satisfied that he had done an adequate job, he picked up a staff from the rack on the opposite side of the room. He took his place on the mat opposite Courfeyrac, who had already picked up his own staff.

“Ready?” Courfeyrac asked as he tossed it from his left hand to his right hand.

Combeferre met his gaze evenly. “Ready.”

And so began the match. They circled around each other. Combeferre scrutinized him, trying to predict which of them was going to make the first move. He easily swerved out of the way as the staff flew toward his shoulder. "Sloppy," he chided.   
  
"Just testing you," Courfeyrac shot back. Combeferre staggered to one side as the staff was thrust toward his hip. 

That was all it took for Combeferre to figure out their rhythm. No longer did it seem like a sparring match. A few more minutes passed and it felt like they were dancing. But they were moving to a kind of music only they could hear. He prided himself on the fact that he was able to anticipate when to duck and when to jump. And no matter how many times they'd argued about it, Combeferre remained convinced that Courfeyrac was much too easy to read. His body language wasn't exactly subtle. 

At last, they both jammed their staffs in front of them, both clanking together to form the shape of an x, holding it steady there. 

Courfeyrac panted as a bead of sweat rolled down his face. Combeferre’s hair was matted to his forehead with perspiration. “We should probably stop.”

Combeferre glanced at the watch looped around Courfeyrac’s wrist and gasped. The staff nearly fell out of his hands as he realized how long they had been at it.

“They’ll be here soon?” Courfeyrac guessed.

“Not soon,” came a voice from the bleachers. “Now.”

They both lowered their staffs, which had remained pressed together until that point. Feuilly lounged on the second row of bleachers, his boots propped up comfortably on the row in front of him. Beside him sat Enjolras and Grantaire, observing them with crossed arms.

“Everyone else already went up to the control room,” Feuilly explained. “But we’re ready whenever you are.”

Combeferre shared a look with Courfeyrac before moving to replace his staff to the place where it belonged on the rack.

“Courfeyrac, you’ll go with Enjolras to suit up and I’ll help Combeferre,” Feuilly instructed. Combeferre craned his neck over his shoulder to wave goodbye to Courfeyrac as he was ushered in the opposite direction. He still was unable to suppress the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. His limbs felt stiff with the stuff, the sparring match having done little to loosen him up.

Feuilly led Combeferre down one of the corridors, illuminated by a single bulb hanging at the precise center of the hallway. There was a point where it split off into two different directions, both shrouded in darkness. Feuilly elected for the left branch and led the way into one of the rooms that looked like it had once been used as a locker room. The tarnished grey doors of the wall of metal lockers were all hanging open.

A key ring jingled as Feuilly pulled it out of his pocket, his fingers automatically edging toward the proper key. He pulled out a single Jaeger suit from behind a door that might have been a supply closet in another lifetime.

“I’m afraid that the suits won’t be as fitted as they are at the actual Shatterdomes,” Feuilly warned. “At least, not today, anyway.”

“That’s alright,” Combeferre said. He was already shrugging off his coat. His fingers pulled at the threadbare hem of his t-shirt. Meanwhile, Feuilly replaced his keys in his coat pocket before rejoining Combeferre.

“I’m helping you with your suit because I thought you might appreciate a technical run-down of what all the parts do while I assemble the pieces,” Feuilly explained. 

“I’d like that a lot.” Combeferre couldn’t help but smile and appreciate that he and Feuilly were on the same wavelength.

“It’s much like assembling a puzzle,” Feuilly said. He indicated for Combeferre to take a couple steps backwards so that he would have adequate space to work. He separated the top portion of the suit from the bottom by running a single finger along the band that crossed the waistline.

“We’re going to start with the bottom,” he said as he approached Combeferre again. He hunched down on his knees and started to wrap the sleek black metal pieces around his legs.

“It snaps into place around your waist.” His words were punctuated with the sound of the suit pieces coming back together right over the curve of his hipbones. There was another clicking sound and a slight increase in pressure around his thighs and shins. “And around your knees.”

Feuilly checked that the pieces had locked into place correctly and then held it in place, his fingers finding purchase behind Combeferre’s knees. He patiently watched and waited as the leg pieces molded themselves to the curves of Combeferre’s calves and thighs.

“This is new technology that helps the suit mold itself over the individual wearing it,” he said. There was a small ripple across the surface of the sleek black material and then everything was smooth again. “Beautiful.”

“It seems to work well,” Combeferre said appreciatively. Feuilly repeated the same process with the chest plate and both arm pieces.

“And here’s the important part,” Feuilly said, as he removed a small length of silver from a small bag that was slung over his shoulder. It dangled limply in the air between them. “The spine. This is what gives you your connection to the Jaeger and to Courfeyrac.”

He circled around Combeferre and aligned it along the curve of Combeferre’s own spine. There was a satisfying snap as the clamp shifted into place correctly.

“Now, remember, you aren’t actually going to be moving it today,” Feuilly reminded him. “We just want to test how well the Drift is working before we even think about trying with three people.”

“I know,” Combeferre said with a nod.

“First drifts are hard,” Feuilly said next. ”I’ll be there to talk you both through it, but try not to hold on to any memories that start to show up. Let them come and, more importantly, let them go.”

“Okay.”

“No matter what emerges from your past or from his past, don’t try to force it to stay, okay?” Feuilly emphasized. “I can’t stress that enough.”

Feuilly readjusted his helmet one last time, his eyes lighting up as it clicked in with the rest of the suit. “Look at you!” He gestured for Combeferre to rotate in places. “You wear the suit well.”

“Let’s hope I use it well, too,” Combeferre added. He rolled his shoulders a few times and then bent his knees some to test the range of motion.

“How does it feel?”

“It's a bit tight around my throat.”

Feuilly hastened forward and edged his fingers around the spherical curve of the suit until he reached the place where the neck piece met the helmet. He tapped it with a certain combination of his fingers and urged the material to reshape itself.

“That’s much better,” Combeferre said immediately. “Thank you.”

“Anywhere else?” Feuilly asked as soon as the ripple over the neck piece disappeared. He did one final circle around Combeferre. He rested a hand on his shoulder and announced, “I think you’re ready to Drift.”

* * *

After Combeferre was hooked into the right side of the Jaeger and Courfeyrac was hooked into its left side, they were required to wait a few minutes as Feuilly returned to the control room and worked to initiate the Drift. Combeferre watched Courfeyrac in his peripheral vision. His lips parted but he said nothing. "You look like you want to say something," he observed.

"I do," Courfeyrac confirmed. "You look so amazing right now."  

"I would say the same back to you, but I have a feeling you already know just how good you look." Combeferre laughed at the crackle of the microphone in his ear.  
  
"We can hear everything you're saying," Enjolras reminded them. "A little focus would be appreciated."  

It wasn't much longer before Feuilly was initiating the countdown. “Neural connection activated,” he said. “Be prepared to Drift in five, four, three, two - ”

The Drift blossomed in front of Combeferre. He was thankful that he was firmly secured into the rig; otherwise, he feared that his legs might have given out from the force of everything that hit him all at once.

He didn’t know what to look at or if he should be looking at anything in particular. He saw memories of his own years as an undergrad. He was looking at his group of friends and then was jolted into the day that the first Kaiju attacked San Francisco. Then it all switched to medical school and the one time that he had managed to botch a cadaver dissection during his first year.

Then he was confronted with a set of memories that were not his own. He was seeing the insides of a Shatterdome filled with people that he had never met before in his life. He saw visions of training mats and of various partners filtering in and out of the gym. It was over as quickly as it had started. Suddenly, he was being forcibly escorted out of a Shatterdome by a handful of security guards. A feeling of immense sadness seeped through the memories and settled into his bones.

But there was one thing that Combeferre felt in the Drift that took him off guard. He was seeing himself through Courfeyrac’s eyes and then his own mind started to bring up memories of Courfeyrac in a sort of reply.

“Drift at one hundred percent and holding!” Feuilly said, the pitch of his voice steadily rising in excitement. “You guys are doing well.”

Combeferre did his best not to hold on to any memories, but something didn’t feel right. His head began to ache and then a pronounced throbbing materialized behind his left eye. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the black spots from his vision. Things were strangely quiet on Courfeyrac's side.

“Combeferre, are you okay? Your vitals are a bit abnormal,” Feuilly’s voice sounded in his ear. He tried to focus on Feuilly’s voice in his ear but it was growing increasingly more difficult to concentrate.  
  
“Something’s off,” he managed through clenched teeth. The pain behind his eyes increased until he could feel it snaking down his neck and fanning out into his shoulders. The last thought he had was that they'd overlooked something. The neural load was too heavy on his side.

“We need to disengage now,” Feuilly said.

The machine swiftly powered down, but Combeferre’s knees were already giving out. He pressed the button to release himself and stumbled out of the rig. He made it to the curved wall of the Jaeger head before collapsing to the ground. He used the wall to support his back, but he couldn’t think about anything except the excruciating pain that blinded him.

“We need some help down here!” Courfeyrac called out as he struggled to disengage from his rig. As soon as he freed himself, he hastened over to Combeferre, the boots of his suit clanking against the metal floor.

But Combeferre had already blacked out by the time Courfeyrac could reach him and remove his helmet.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to [Jenny](http://j-j-k.tumblr.com/) for listening to me ramble about this and for reading both drafts. You're wonderful!! :)

_Combeferre grimaced as the pungent smell of sweat stung his nostrils. There were too many people crowded together in this auditorium, which did not in reality have the capacity to comfortably accommodate everybody.The air reeked with body odor. He was sure that it had seeped into the wrinkles of his clothing by now. It was going to take multiple washes to take the edge off of the smell._

_He stood near the back of the crowd, listening to the symphony of voices that swelled in the waiting area. High pitched adolescent voices were underscored by more mature voices of deeper pitches. He was able to detect the palpable sense of nerves emanating from the people around him, making the air around him feel heavy. Some continually checked the faces of their digital watches, while others shifted their weight from the soles of their feet to their toes._

_His heart slammed against his sternum. His own palms were coated with a perpetual layer of sweat. It wouldn’t go away, no matter how often he swiped his hands on his pants. His mother’s voice sounded in the back of his head, chiding him for wiping his dirty hands on his brand new black dress pants. He made a conscious effort to stop jiggling his left leg, but it would start up again of its own accord whenever his mind wandered off to other things._

_A hush fell over the crowd as the clock struck twelve. His eyes automatically honed in on the single screen mounted on the wall on the opposite side of the room. He scanned the rankings and numbers that appeared in block-faced green font at exactly noon. Courfeyrac's name was ranked second. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and his breath seemed to catch somewhere near his windpipe._

_He was going to be advancing into the Jaeger pilot training program._

* * *

The elevator doors opened to reveal Feuilly and Enjolras. Feuilly glanced at Enjolras, whose face was drained of all color.

In the time it had taken them to arrive, Courfeyrac had managed to find the button to raise the Jaeger’s visor. He had not raised it entirely. As a result, light from the loading area streamed in at an angle.

Joly was hot on their heels with his briefcase of medical supplies slung over his shoulder. He could not suppress his cry when he saw Combeferre sprawled out on the floor of the Jaeger.

Courfeyrac was crouched over his body, grasping his hand and making unintelligible noises.

Enjolras placed a hand on his shoulder, which seemed to jolt him out of the hysterical state that he was in. Feuilly offered him a hand up. His eyes brimmed with tears as he watched Joly take Combeferre’s pulse with two fingers placed along the artery in his neck. 

“No pulse,” Joly reported. He ignored the sound of two helmets crashing to the ground. “Feuilly, a little help?”

Both Joly and Feuilly’s fingers sought the place on the chest piece to release it. Joly tapped his fingers on the right side, near the jut of Combeferre’s hip bone, while Feuilly did the same combination of tapping on his other side. There was a slight click as the chest plate disengaged. They had to wait another moment for it to fully separate from the bottom half of the suit before they could pry it off.

“This is Marius all over again,” Courfeyrac said, his voice hoarse and tears streaming down his face. Enjolras shot him a strange look, perplexed at what had triggered the comment. They hadn't spoken of that incident in a long time. 

“Enjolras, handle him,” Joly ordered without looking up.

He launched into CPR, alternating between pumping his chest and blowing breath through his mouth. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard a long-forgotten instructor telling him that breathing into the mouth was no longer a necessary component. The most important part was to keep the heart pumping. He fell into a steady rhythm of compressions. At the same time he sent a silent thank you to his mother for enrolling him in piano lessons all those years ago. His ability to maintain an even rhythm for chest compressions was impeccable by now, though he greatly hoped that he wouldn’t have to use this skill again.

“Come on,” Joly said through clenched teeth. His words were punctuated by his hand motions. “You can’t. Leave. Us now. We. Need You.”

Meanwhile, Enjolras crouched down to collect the helmets that had dropped out of Courfeyrac’s hands. He handed Courfeyrac’s helmet back to him, so that he could take a better look at the other one. There was a pool of blood drying in the curve of the chin piece. It was the tell-tale sign of a neural load that was too heavy.

“Courfeyrac. Breathe,” Enjolras instructed, drawing his attention away from Combeferre’s helmet. He anchored his free hand on Courfeyrac’s collarbone. He sidestepped so that he was blocking Courfeyrac’s line of sight of the resuscitation currently in progress.

“Joly knows what he’s doing. It’s going to be okay,” he soothed. 

“That’s what you said last time,” Courfeyrac said, his voice dangerously quiet. He lifted his own hand to staunch the flow of tears down his face. The material of the suit felt rough against his cheeks and nothing at all like the cool, calming touch that he craved.

There was a quiet gasp as breath rushed into Combeferre’s lungs. The sweet sound almost made Enjolras forget the sting of the comment that had prefaced it. Almost.

Joly sat back on his knees, taking a moment to catch his breath. His hands were still threaded together and arrested in midair, lest he need to restart compressions. Feuilly took the initiative to wrench off the portion of the suit encircling Combeferre’s wrist and pressed his own fingers to the blueish vein at the junction of his wrist and the heel of his palm.

“He’s got a pulse.”

“We have to take him to the hospital. Now.” Courfeyrac’s hoarse voice ricocheted off the metal walls of the Jaegar. “I was hardly getting anything from his side of the Drift, which means that he must have been carrying my load on top of his.”

Joly sighed and massaged his eyes with the tips of his fingers. His silence began to aggravate Courfeyrac’s anxiety.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Courfeyrac burst out. The outburst was uncharacteristic of him, but his friends forgave him, considering the circumstance. 

“We have to be careful, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras finally said.

“If we go to the hospital, we risk getting found out. How else will we explain the damage?” Joly said. “Someone might get suspicious.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he said. He looked to Feuilly, desperately seeking some kind of support. “You’re all worried more about the safety of this project more than Combeferre’s life?”

“That’s not what they said,” Feuilly said, though he knew that logical arguments wouldn’t suffice in this case. The situation was too emotionally charged for Courfeyrac to be expected to be thinking rationally or for him to be considering the bigger picture. “We’d be putting everyone at risk if we’re exposed.”

Courfeyrac’s shoulders shook as all of his anger deflated into dejection.

“What are we going to do?” He cast a glance at Combeferre, who was still out cold. His chest continued to rise and fall. Courfeyrac seized onto that steady reminder of life to keep him grounded.

Feuilly squeezed his eyes shut, as was customary for him when he was trying to concentrate. “I helped at the Shatterdomes when they were first testing pilots with Drifting technology. Even when it was a single person grappling with the Drift, they didn't need extensive recovery time before they tried again. And you still carried a small portion of it, so it wasn’t like he had to shoulder its entire weight.”

“What happened when they woke up?” Enjolras prompted, voicing the question that was already on Courfeyrac's lips. 

“Well, they were out for a while, but they came back around with headaches and some nosebleeds.”

“So, we should just watch over him until he comes around?” Courfeyrac concluded. “There isn’t anything else we can do? At all?”

“I don’t think so.” Feuilly shook his head. “Not until he wakes.”

Joly, Feuilly, and Enjolras were able to lift up Combeferre, forming a type of makeshift stretcher with their arms. Joly held on to his chest, his arms positioned underneath Combeferre’s armpits, while Feuilly supported his legs and his feet. Enjolras cradled his torso. His outstretched fingers sought for purchase on Combeferre’s back and helped to support his spine.

Courfeyrac trailed behind them with both helmets tucked under his arm. “Watch his head,” he cried out as they maneuvered themselves into the elevator.

“We’ve got him, Courf, relax,” Joly said through clenched teeth. “Now would you hit the button, please?”

* * *

_The fluorescent lights flickered over his head, and he had the fleeting thought that one of the bulbs desperately needed to be replaced. The same feeling of worry as before blossomed in the pit of his stomach. He racked his brain, trying to think of anything he could have done that might have gotten him in trouble._

_He sat in a wooden chair that was unforgiving against his back. He automatically straightened, his spine immensely grateful for the improvement in posture, as he heard the door behind him open to admit someone into the office._

_Bright red hair filled his peripheral vision. It was parted on the right side of his scalp and held into place with meticulously applied gel. Freckles clustered around the edges of his eyes and scattered over the bridge of his nose, marking every place where the sun had kissed his skin._

_“Courfeyrac, right?” the man said with raised eyebrows._

_“Yes,” he confirmed. “No need to introduce yourself to me, though. I know who you are.”_

_“Is that right?” he said with the slightest hint of a smile.“Then you already know why you’re here, I presume?”_

_“Actually, no. I have no idea why I was told to report to you, sir.”_

_Feuilly’s laughter filled the office, making the poorly lit room seem a little bit brighter. Courfeyrac glanced at the small potted plant on his desk. The light pink petals were only just beginning to unfold._

_“I’ve seen the results of your training,” Feuilly said. He leaned against the back of his desk and crossed his arms in front of where he was seated, measuring Courfeyrac’s reaction. “It’s quite impressive.”_

_“Oh,” he said, ducking his head so that his superior wouldn’t be able to see the gradual reddening of his face. “I’m still only ranked third overall.”_

_“There’s no need to be modest in front of me,” Feuilly replied. “You have a rare skill. Something that sets you apart from all of the other trainees here.”_

_Courfeyrac kept his head lowered modestly even though his heart swelled with pride at a combination of words that he had never once before heard addressed to him in his life._

_“Not everyone who walks through that door has the ability to Drift with anyone we set in front of him. That’s why we want to advance you out of training, effective as of right now. We want to start you working with one of the pilots who has had some difficulty finding a new partner.”_

_Courfeyrac blinked and had to take a few moments to gather his thoughts before responding. He repeated the words in his head, trying to break them down and digest them further. “You mean - ”_

_“That’s right,” Feuilly said with a nod. He picked up a manila folder with a stack of papers paper clipped together inside it. He offered it to Courfeyrac as he said, “You’ll be working with the one and only Marius Pontmercy. Report to the control room first thing tomorrow morning.”_

* * *

“I’m not leaving him,” Courfeyrac repeated. “The last time we left a pilot alone after suffering neural damage, it didn’t end well. I’m not doing that again.”

Combeferre was resting on a makeshift bed, which they'd made out of two rectangular tables pushed together. They'd scrambled to clear the cool metal surface of its mismatched collection of papers and blueprints. Combeferre was turned on his side with Joly’s bulky coat draped over his shoulders and Courfeyrac’s hat bunched up under his head for a pillow. Grantaire stood at his feet, watching over him while they tried to figure out how to get him back to Feuilly’s house. From his angle, the wings sown onto Joly’s coat appeared to sprout from a place near Combeferre’s shoulder blades.

“Courf, you know that was different,” Joly said, though he knew his attempt to reason with Courfeyrac would be futile. “What happened to Marius wasn’t the same as what happened to Combeferre.”

“Yeah, and I’d like to keep it that way,” Courfeyrac retorted.

“Alright, calm down,” Feuilly said, stepping in to break the eye contact between Joly and Courfeyrac before either could say anything that they would regret later. Bahorel and Jehan sat at his side in high backed leather chairs with wheels attached to the bottom. Bosseut sat on one of the nearby desks, his back turned to a computer that displayed a bouncing cube as its screensaver.

“Okay, so we learned this morning that the Drift isn’t ready for two people, let alone three. Something in the way that we split the neural load was too heavy on Combeferre’s side. What do you say I reconfigure it and then we can try again?” he proposed. 

“With Enjolras and Grantaire,” Jehan finished for him.

“What if the same thing happens?” Bossuet wondered. He glanced at Enjolras, who had moved to stand next to Grantaire. “We don’t want either of you to go into cardiac arrest.”

“Okay, here’s what we can do,” Feuilly said, stepping forward now that he had formulated a plan. “I’ll use Combeferre’s notes to reconfigure the Drift. Then, we’ll get Enjolras and Grantaire suited up to do a quick test run. We won’t keep you in long enough for the Drift to overwhelm you. A minute at most. Besides, you two should know right away if something is still off.”

“I’ll take Combeferre and Courfeyrac home, then,” Bahorel said, volunteering himself with a raised hand. “I think they’re both going to need some time to recuperate.”

“It’s settled, then,” Joly said.

Bahorel shrugged on his own coat and then hoisted Combeferre into his arms. Joly hastened forward to readjust his coat over Combeferre to protect him from the cold. He pulled the hat over his head, as well, careful to smooth it over his hair.

Courfeyrac threw his arms around Enjolras and Grantaire, who had still been standing close to each other, conferring over something.

“Please be careful,” he said as he pulled them both into his embrace. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“It’ll be fine, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said. His arm curved around Courfeyrac and patted his back.

Grantaire kept quiet, for fear that Courfeyrac would be able to detect the fear that he felt over the Drift potentially malfunctioning again. Enjolras could handle his doubt, but Courfeyrac could not handle that on top of everything else.

Courfeyrac couldn't help but think that Combeferre looked like a rag doll when he was cradled in Bahorel’s arms. He hastened in front of him to hold the elevator doors open and then to clear his pathway through the warehouse. He led the way to the place where he had parked his car, sheltered by a cluster of tall trees.

Snow drifted down from the clouds overhead, landing and melting in Courfeyrac’s hair. Snowflakes melted on his cheeks and lips.

Courfeyrac climbed into the backseat of Bahorel’s car and sat facing forward. Bahorel leaned forward to set Combeferre down on the seat, while Courfeyrac helped to position his head so that it could come to a rest in his lap.

The car keys jingled in Bahorel’s hand as he crossed in front of the car and situated himself in the driver’s seat. He met Courfeyrac’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

“He’s going to be okay,” Bahorel said as he cranked the keys in the ignition. Courfeyrac's worry felt like another passenger riding in the seat beside him.

“I just wish Joly could have come with us,” Courfeyrac said. He began to card his fingers through Combeferre’s hair. He didn’t think Combeferre would mind.

“He has to stay in case the reconfiguration doesn’t work and the same thing happens,” Bahorel said, repeating the plan, if only because it might serve as a source of comfort for Courfeyrac.

“God willing, Feuilly will be able to figure out what’s wrong," he said with a sigh. 

The rest of the drive passed in silence.

Courfeyrac couldn’t help wondering whether Combeferre’s exhaustion had contributed to things going wrong. If he had been able to sleep or if they hadn’t spent so much time sparring in the hours before the test drift, would any of this had happened? Would he have been able to handle the uneven load better if he had been more rested? He wrestled with his thoughts, though by the time they reached Feuilly's house, he still hadn't decided whether or not it was his fault.

* * *

 _The_ _pounding of his heart now was very different from when he was sitting in the auditorium and still different from when he had been summoned to Feuilly’s office. This was a good kind of throbbing. His pulse ached in his throat in a way that seemed to suggest anticipation._

_Two sharp raps of knuckles sounded on the door, and he sprang up from where he had been sitting on the bed._

_He peeked through the peephole, which allowed him to see a ginger-haired man standing outside of his living quarters. He crossed his arms in front of them and then seemed to change his mind. He uncrossed them and put his hands in his pockets. It was strangely endearing._

_The door hinges creaked as he answered the door._

_“Marius! Hey,” he said. His cheeks ached from beaming so widely. His eyes flickered over Marius’ disheveled hair, which was slightly lopsided from his nervous habit of running his fingers through his hair._

_“I, uh, just wanted to stop by and tell you how well you’re doing. Everyone thinks you're doing great."_

_Courfeyrac seemed to grow taller at the compliment._

_“I think you’re doing great, too," Marius added after a momentary pause._

_“Thanks,” Courfeyrac said. “Means a lot. Coming from you.”_

_“Can I come in for a second?” he asked, his hazel eyes shining._

_“Oh, yeah! Of course,” Courfeyrac said, stepping aside to give him access into the room. As soon as the door was shut behind him, he felt a warm sensation filling his right hand. Marius had taken it into his own and was smiling._

_Oh my god, he said in his mind, over and over again. Is this really happening?_

_“I’ve been in your head,” Marius said sheepishly. He stroked Courfeyrac’s knuckles with the pad of his thumb._

_“And I’ve been in yours,” Courfeyrac said weakly._

_“So, I shouldn’t have to say too much, then?” Marius said, catching Courfeyrac’s eye._

_“May I kiss you?”_

_“I’ve wanted you to since the first time I saw you.”_

_“I know.”_

* * *

The sound of the tires against the concrete of Feuilly’s driveway broke Courfeyrac out of his reverie. His train of thought had taken him to the place where he figured that it didn’t matter what had happened up until this point. He would just have to deal with the consequences now.

With Bahorel’s help, Courfeyrac was able to get Combeferre into bed in the guest room. They tucked him under the covers and drew the sheets up over his chest. Courfeyrac draped the quilt over him for good measure. As he was pushing a stray lock of hair away from Combeferre’s face, he noticed with dismay how warm his forehead. 

He removed Combeferre’s glasses from his face and set them gently on the nightstand next to the bed. He hastened to find a washcloth from the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom that he could place on his forehead.

Courfeyrac kept a vigil over Combeferre. Every hour, he cooled his washcloth and he made sure some liquids were making their way down his throat. Courfeyrac listened to the muted noise filtering in from the radio in the living room. 

* * *

_An immense sadness seeped into his bones. His limbs felt heavy but his heart was heavier. They'd told him that it was only a concussion. It was only a concussion and he had gone to bed, but the next morning he was gone. No matter how much Combeferre prodded, he wasn’t able to pry into the details of what had happened. That memory was sealed tightly shut._

_The usual noises in the Shatterdome were muted now, as if they had to travel through a thick pane of glass before they were able to reach his ears. He didn’t see colors of the mechanics’ uniform or the different hues of the Jaegers. All he could see was the grey metal that seemed to push in on him from every side, no matter which way he turned. But that wasn’t the worst part._

_It was too quiet in his head._

_The usual dialogue, the banter and the exchange of flirtatious remarks, was all missing. Everything was silent. He felt so lost and he was missing his other half. No matter how much he threw himself into his work, it nagged at the back of his mind._

_Deep down, he was afraid that he might never feel whole again._

* * *

It was just beginning to get dark again, still with no word from the warehouse. Courfeyrac flicked on the lamp and tugged Combeferre’s old clothes off. He started a load of laundry and listened to the soothing sound of the washer starting its cycle. He picked the softest sweatpants and the largest t-shirt out of their mismatched collection of clothes in the dresser. He was just pulling up a pair of thick socks over Combeferre’s feet when he began to stir.

A stream of blood was flowing from his left nostril. His eyes widened in alarm as he pressed his hand to his nose to staunch the bleeding.

“Hold on,” Courfeyrac moved back up to Combeferre’s head. He helped Combeferre to sit up, his back propped up against a stack of pillows, and then grabbed a towel from the stack he had brought in from the bathroom. He crumpled it up and passed it over to Combeferre before reaching out to pick up the washcloth that had slipped away from his head and landed on the mattress. He deposited it on the nightstand and tried not to think about how much the hand gripping the towel was shaking.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Courfeyrac soothed. Combeferre blinked rapidly, still trying to figure out where he was. “You’re at Feuilly’s. You’re okay.”

But when Combeferre met Courfeyrac’s gaze, all he could think about was the sadness that he had felt in his memories. He still felt anger bubbling in his stomach from having a close friend ripped away from him when he needed him the most. Vague impressions of being fired from the Shatterdome lingered in the back of his mind. He wasn't sure what to make of those memories, as they'd been repressed. 

“You’re okay,” Courfeyrac repeated as he noticed the tears on Combeferre’s cheeks. “Scoot over a bit, will you?”

It took a minute, but Combeferre managed to edge over in bed so that Courfeyrac had room to climb in. Courfeyrac pulled the covers over both of them and waited as Combeferre settled into his arms. Combeferre closed his eyes again as Courfeyrac’s head came to a rest on top of his. He still hadn’t managed to stop crying.

“I’m so sorry,” he finally managed. He swallowed so that he could speak more clearly. “I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

“What are you talking about?” Courfeyrac’s breath warmed the side of Combeferre’s face.

“Marius. I’m sorry about Marius,” he said. He increased the pressure holding the towel to his nose. 

“Oh.” Courfeyrac was rarely at a loss for words. He hadn’t realized that Combeferre had reached so far back into his memories when they were in the Drift.

“You loved him,” Combeferre said when he could trust his own voice again. “So much.”

“I did, but it was a long time ago. He hit his head really badly when we went out to fight a Kaiju one day. They said he was going to be okay, that he just needed some rest, but I went to check on him the next morning and he was gone. That’s why I refused to leave you after what happened,” Courfeyrac said as he tightened his grip around Combeferre’s shoulders.

“I know.” Combeferre couldn’t help but manage a small smile at that. Courfeyrac was quick to forget how deeply he'd been in his head.

“Did the Drift give you any memories after that? Like the first time I gave you a ride to work? Or maybe what I was thinking during Joly’s birthday party?”

“No,” Combeferre admitted. “What about from my end?”

“Hardly anything,” Courfeyrac confessed. “Though I was intrigued to see my hat and also me smiling a couple of times.”

It was quiet for a few moments before Courfeyrac spoke again, “I never wanted you to get hurt.”

Combeferre’s eyes sprang open. He wished he would have kept them closed because the light aggravated his headache and also because he didn’t want to see Courfeyrac crying in his peripheral vision.

“It isn’t your fault,” Combeferre protested. “We just didn’t calculate something right.”

“Still. I never ever wanted anyone to get hurt. I’m so sorry that it happened to you.”

“I’m okay, don’t worry,” Combeferre tried to reassure him. Even though he wasn’t okay. Even though his mouth hurt in the places where his teeth connected to his gums. His whole spine radiated pain from his neck all the way down to the tip of his toes. Every word he spoke sent a wave of pain shooting through his head. For the moment, Combeferre felt comfortable enough to rest in Courfeyrac’s embrace. But before he could do that, he had to ask something first.

“Courfeyrac?”

“Hm?” Courfeyrac murmured into his hair.

“You have some feelings,” Combeferre said quietly, unsure of how else to phrase it. He looked directly at the dresser across the room as he said, “I didn’t get anything specific, but I got an impression of how you see me.”

“I obviously can’t deny it since you were in my head," he replied. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Combeferre pressed. He felt a bit selfish, wanting to hear him it said out loud.

“Only if you feel up to it.”

Combeferre readjusted himself in Courfeyrac’s arms until he could make eye contact with him. He blinked, trying desperately not to cry again.

“I know that you’re still hurting from what happened and I know that you will probably always hurt a little bit because of it. And I know this is really not the proper time for something like this, but…” Combeferre faltered. He paused to let the swell of emotions carry him forward. 

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Courfeyrac smiled as he lowered his head so that he could press their foreheads together. The warmness that he felt radiating from Combeferre’s forehead reminded him that he needed to cool a washcloth for him again.

“I mean it,” Combeferre said, thinking that maybe Courfeyrac hadn't heard him or hadn't believed him. In truth the whole scene wasn’t very romantic at all. The towel was still pressed against his nose, already dyed red. It wasn't anything like he had imagined in his head. “I really love you." 

“I love you, too.” Combeferre had the thought that Courfeyrac’s voice was more soothing than any lullaby that he had ever heard in his life. “I would kiss you right now if you weren’t in the middle of a nosebleed.”

“It’s okay. I can wait.”

“So can I. Now rest.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself, friends.

Combeferre had imagined several different scenarios in which he would have found himself kissing Courfeyrac during the short time that he had known him. He’d imagined a tender first kiss, exchanged on a secluded portion on the Wall with only the moonlight overhead, or perhaps it would have happened if he would have accidentally locked the two of them in the supply room at the clinic. Maybe he even would have grabbed a fistful of his shirt and kissed him in a booth in a quiet corner of the club.

But never would he have imagined that he would be kissing Courfeyrac in bed. At least not right away and not while blood was still drying on his shirt.

Neither of them really knew who started it. Neither of them cared enough to ask.

“This is a pretty shitty first date, huh?” Courfeyrac mumbled. Combeferre took the initiative, pushing Courfeyrac onto his back with a light touch to the shoulder. Combeferre climbed on top of him and braced himself with his knees bracketing each side of his torso.

Courfeyrac cradled his head with both hands, his palms anchored beneath Combeferre’s ears.

“Mm.” Courfeyrac disturbed their rhythm momentarily so that he could catch his breath. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

“Hush,” Combeferre ordered as he leaned forward to recapture the kiss. Combeferre could feel Courfeyrac’s lips curve into a smile as their mouths reconnected. He fell in love with the friction of Courfeyrac’s lips against his own.

Combeferre drew his lips away so that he could place a single kiss on the right corner of Courfeyrac’s mouth, at the exact place where a dimple would have materialized had he been smiling widely. He pressed his lips to each cheek, both flushed red, and then pressed his lips to the stretch of flesh near his earlobe. He fell in love again with the little noises that his kisses elicited. He pulled away and brought their foreheads together, clamping his eyelids shut and sending himself into complete darkness.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac wondered, perplexed at the noticeable change in pace. He grimaced as he felt a droplet of blood land somewhere near his nose. Combeferre realized that Courfeyrac hadn’t even noticed the first. “Oh.”

Combeferre rolled off of him, and Courfeyrac managed to prop himself against the pillows. Combeferre’s hand patted along the mattress as it sought the rough fabric of the towel. He uncovered it from where it had been hidden by the folds of the sheets and wiped off the blood from the place where it stained his upper lip red. He turned back to Courfeyrac, his eyes brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he finally managed to say. He tried to say something else but the words wouldn’t come. _You deserve better than this_ , his mind supplied for him.

“It’s alright,” Courfeyrac assured him. Combeferre reached over with his free hand to brush away the two stray droplets of blood from where they had landed on his face. They situated themselves again with sleep in mind this time after the nosebleed tapered off. Courfeyrac’s body curled protectively around Combeferre. His arms came to a rest across Combeferre’s stomach, and he pulled him closer still.

Combeferre lifted his hands automatically to cover Courfeyrac’s and he felt both of their arms rise and fall as he breathed. He traced circles on Courfeyrac’s forearm, though his thoughts were focused somewhere outside. They flitted and danced around the stars that shone through the window. But the size of his thoughts in comparison to the sheer immensity of the universe in which they drifted left him with a feeling of insignificance that tasted bitter in his mouth as he fell asleep.

* * *

Feuilly woke up gradually as the smell of black coffee wafted over to him. The red ceramic mug was placed with care on the desk, right in the middle of the display of three screens. He laced his fingers together and thrust his arms over his head, while Joly dragged a chair over next to him. His shirt hitched up as he stretched. They'd been messing with the Drift all night, and he'd only just managed to sneak in a nap. A breath of cool air caressed the exposed of skin above the waistband of his jeans.

“Good morning.” The wheels of Joly’s chair scraped against the hardwood flooring beneath their feet as he scooted forward.

“Morning,” Feuilly said. He cupped his coffee in his hands, the warm sensation spreading from his palms and radiating to his fingertips. Joly sat silently next to him, sipping his own coffee out of his own travel mug. Its silver coat was slightly discolored along the rim. The steam from his own drink fogged his glasses, obscuring them near the bottom curve of his lenses.

“Might want to check the screens,” Joly replied. He leaned forward to set down his coffee, nudging it with the back of his hand until he was sure that it wasn’t in danger of falling off the desk. His leaned back and massaged both temples with his fingers, hoping to soothe the headache already forming there.

Feuilly glanced at the screen the furthest to his left. He had to clench his jaw tightly to keep it from falling open. The twisting fracture of ocean floor that signified the breech flashed with clusters of light that signified changing energy levels. Judging by the energy readings, a category three Kaiju had already made its way through the breech.

He downed his coffee in three gulps that scalded his tongue and throat. His fingers flew across the keyboard in front of him, typing in a memorized chain of passwords and ID numbers that let him pass through into the more complicated systems of other functioning Shatterdomes.

He watched as the animation of the projected path of the Kaiju flashed across the screen, its trajectory extending in a straight line toward the western coast of the United States.

“Ah, shit,” he said. His breath blew out noisily through his lips. "Perfect. Just perfect," he muttered.

* * *

Courfeyrac awoke to Combeferre frantically pulling on the sleeve of his shirt. He gripped the fabric with white fingertips.

“Help,” he said quietly.

Courfeyrac blinked rapidly, willing his brain to cooperate. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as his sluggish brain struggled to understand. An incomprehensible noise escaped from his lips - part exclamation over what he saw and part question. The towel had fallen away from Combeferre’s grasp during the night and had landed out of reach from where it had slipped off the bed. In the meantime, Combeferre had his hand pressed to his nose, though it was doing almost nothing to staunch the flow of blood coming from both nostrils.

“Shit." He untangled his limbs from where they had been curled together with Combeferre’s when they had been sleeping and pushed the covers back. The blankets nearest to Combeferre came back bloody in his hands.

He limped to the stack of towels on the dresser, one leg frustratingly still dull and heavy from its awkward position in bed. But though his body moved slowly, his mind was already reeling, already panicking. _Too much blood_ , it said. His thoughts screeched and replayed the same observation like a broken record.

As he approached the bed again with a towel in hand, Combeferre’s voice jolted him out of his panic. It came out sounding pinched due to the pressure he was attempting to apply to the bridge of his nose. His mouth was moving but the only thing Courfeyrac understood was, “Joly.”

The vision of Combeferre, whose skin seemed to be stretched too tightly over his face, haunted him as he hastened to retrieve his phone. He regretted leaving it on the kitchen table. Why had he thought that that would be a good idea? He kicked himself for his lack of foresight.

He had Joly’s number ringing as he ran back to the guest room, passing by Bahorel curled up on the couch under a tattered quilt on his way back.

He halted suddenly in the door frame as he heard a gale of wind in the background and the unmistakable roar of ocean waves breaking over the shore as Joly answered. “- going to see if I can see it,” he heard someone say in the background.

“Courfeyrac, what is it?” Joly repeated, thinking that Courfeyrac hadn’t been able to hear him the first time. “Why haven’t you been answering? We were just about to call you again.”

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac said instead. He was still trying to place the background noise. “Where are you?”

“Have you been listening to the radio?”

“No, sorry, handling another emergency right now.” Combeferre made a hasty gesture with his hands, urging him to pass over the phone. “Hold on, Combeferre wants you.”

“Turn on the radio!” Joly shouted before Courfeyrac could hand over the phone. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, careful not to sit on Combeferre’s feet. He noticed that Combeferre had peeled his socks off sometime during the night.

He listened as Combeferre started speaking as quickly as he could. Courfeyrac could see the signs of weariness imprinted on him. It was there in the lopsidedness of his t-shirt, which had slipped off of one of his shoulders, leaving it exposed. It was apparent in the skewed glasses on his face, which he’d located on the nightstand. It was especially there in his disheveled hair, ruined from his habit of carding his fingers through his hair when he was trying to think though a difficult problem. It was easier to look at him this way instead of listen to the words coming out of his mouth, words that seemed to fracture Courfeyrac’s heart until it felt like it might shatter completely.

Because maybe if he didn’t listen to them then maybe they wouldn’t be true. Maybe Combeferre would be mistaken and maybe his nosebleed, which still had not ceased, wasn’t as bad as it looked. But Combeferre was always right and the blood seeped through the sheets, stained the fabric of his clothes and dyed his hands red. The smell of blood mingled with the sweat dried on his face from when his fever had broken.

“I don’t know,” Combeferre said and then paused. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something else but changed his mind and continued to listen. “Are you sure they have no other choice?” he asked grimly.

The only sound now was the ceiling fan blades rotating in the living room and Bahorel snoring softly. Courfeyrac was sure that he could hear each one of his heartbeats. Combeferre hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

Courfeyrac got up and handed him a fresh towel to give himself something to do. He felt mildly reassured that the blood flow was subsiding. Combeferre leaned back against the pillows, his gaze fixed on some point outside the window.

“You might want to turn on the radio,” he said at last.

At Combeferre’s insistence, he padded back to the living room, turning the dials on the radio until they got clear reception for an emergency broadcast. The brisk female voice relaying the report seemed too cheerful. Her consonants were elongated but her vowels were clipped, as if she could somehow stop wasting time on completely pronouncing her vowels and move on to more important things.

“A category three Kaiju has been spotted off the Oregon coast. Take the necessary precautions and brace for the possibility of landfall.”

The message repeated itself three times before the information fully hit him. His knees weakened under the very impact of it, while he simultaneously thought, _This is it. It’s really happening._

* * *

The only thing he could think about was that the world was ending. The world was ending and when the sun rose tomorrow, everything would be different.

The world was ending, and Grantaire was standing in the shower in one of the locker rooms. The tendrils of steam curled from the water shooting out of the shower head, water that left his skin bright red within seconds. The pain from its impact distracted him momentarily from the dissonance of thoughts in his head. One minute he was standing, but he blinked and suddenly felt the cool tile flooring beneath him. It was uncomfortably cool against his calves and the back of his thighs.

“Grantaire?” a quiet voice sounded, echoing off the metal of the lockers. He instinctively brought his legs to his chest and curled into himself. He rested his forehead against his knees. Maybe the voice would go away if he didn’t say anything.

“Grantaire, are you in there?” Grantaire lifted his head long enough to hear Enjolras lower himself to the floor, using the adjacent wall to support his back. Only a flimsy shower curtain separated them, but Grantaire could see the fabric of his jeans underneath the hem of the curtain. He noticed that the curtain had been altered, and his eyes latched on to the place where the thread was stitched unevenly.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Grantaire said, choking down the sob that was fighting its way from his chest to his throat. “I know what you’re going to ask me, and I don’t know how to answer.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Enjolras’ voice was muffled by the fabric of the curtain. “I understand if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that,” Grantaire said. He lifted his head so that the stream of water could fall directly onto his face. At least that way he couldn’t tell whether or not the moisture was from his own tears.

“What is it, then?” Enjolras prompted. His voice was uncharacteristically patient. Some part of Grantaire wished for it to be rough and aggressive, to goad him and to show him he had no other choice but to be brave for once in his goddamn life. He needed Enjolras to drag him kicking and screaming; otherwise, he might not be able to do what was going to be expected of him.

Only the sound of water dripping against the tiles was audible for the next minute.

“I’m scared,” Grantaire confessed. He was able to do so without the guilt associated with observing Enjolras’ reaction. His breath came out ragged as he said, “Not all of us want to die as much as you do.”

“I don’t want to die. Not unless it's a last resort," Enjolras amended. His hand grasped the curtain, the motion sending a shockwave that rippled through the rest of the material. He drew back the curtain momentarily so that Grantaire could see the single tear rolling down his left cheek and then let it fall back into place. “But do you know how long it will take a Jaeger from the Anchorage Shatterdome to make its way here?”

“Enjolras - ”

“Two more hours, at least,” he barreled on, his voice compensating in intensity for what it lacked in volume. “So we have to help.”

“We don’t _have_ to do anything,” Grantaire retorted. Regret for the sharpness of his comment left his tongue feeling heavy.

“But we must,” Enjolras insisted. “Even if we only save a few lives. Even if we only save one. Don’t you see? We have to. We have a Jaeger, and we have to do something.”

“What if you fail?” Grantaire asked next. He pulled his legs closer to his chest and blinked away his tears. He swallowed, hoping to dislodge the lump in his throat.

“Then I fail. I get it if you don’t want to go. It’s okay, but you have to tell me now so that I can ask someone else. But we both know that I have the potential to Drift the best with you.”

“I know.”

The shower shut off suddenly. Grantaire gripped the curtain and inched it over a bit so that he could see Enjolras’ face.

“I just want to be with you,” he said. He leaned his head against the the wall of the shower. It felt strangely warm against the back of his head. “Please don’t leave me.”

“Never," Enjolras promised. He tilted his head against the wall so that he could hold Grantaire’s gaze. “Come with me.”

* * *

“A Kaiju, huh?” Courfeyrac said as he slowly walked back to the guest room. His toes sunk into the soft carpet as he stood in the doorway of the guest room. “What are you doing?”

Combeferre clutched at the cool metal of the bed frame with one hand and fumbled with his shoes with the other. He had draped Courfeyrac’s cardigan over his shoulders, even though it was too big around the waist. The sight of it made Courfeyrac’s heart swell.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his slight smile hinting at his amusement. It was a temporary distraction from the sense of dread that threatened to consume him.

“You have to drive me back to the Shatterdome,” he said, screwing up his face in a way that was supposed to convince Courfeyrac of his determination but really only betrayed his fatigue. His eyes had lost something of their usual luster. It was replaced by a new sense of uneasiness.

“I know what you’re thinking, but you won’t do them any good by being there.”

Combeferre’s eyes widened, and his whole face crumpled. The wilting motion spread from the shutting of his eyelids to the down-turn of his lips into a frown. Even his shoulders slumped. “It’s not for them,” he managed to say. “It’s for - it’s for me.”

All of Courfeyrac’s protestations died on his lips. His mind wasn’t working fast enough to keep up with the whole situation, but he somehow sensed its urgency on some level.

“Enjolras and Grantaire, they’re going to fight it,” Combeferre said, taking a step backward in his thought process, having observed something in Courfeyrac’s face that hinted at his confusion. “They’re going to go fight it even though I’m living proof that it isn’t working the way that it should.”

“I figured that might be the case,” Courfeyrac replied, his voice laced with a certain type of resignation. A long time ago, he had accepted the likely possibility that Enjolras would be the one to make a drastic sacrifice, though he had never voiced his suspicion out loud. It had been a premonition of sorts, though he never would have relished over being right about such a thing. He always pegged Enjolras for a martyr type, though that did nothing to lessen any of his pain at hearing the news. The explanation behind the noise he had heard on Joly’s end of the line became slightly clearer to him.

“I’m this way without even moving it. I was out in fifteen minutes,” Combeferre said next. His shoe lay abandoned on the floor, either because it was no longer important in the scheme of things or because he hadn’t realized he’d dropped it.

Without needing to hear any more of the explanation, Courfeyrac approached him and crouched down to retrieve his shoe. He tapped Combeferre’s calf with his index finger, a subtle prompting for him to lift his foot so that he could finish the job that he’d abandoned. He laced them and tied the knots without another word.

Tears blurred his vision, though he couldn’t have explained why he was crying. Combeferre laid a hand on his shoulder, and it felt like a sheet of ice had frozen somewhere over his heart.

He stilled. He didn’t even take a breath.

He inclined his head after a moment, as if seeking confirmation of something he instinctively knew.

“No,” he said, even though Combeferre hadn’t said anything.

“I am,” Combeferre said. Courfeyrac straightened until he could return Combeferre’s gaze evenly.

“Then we’re going to the hospital, not the Shatterdome,” he said.

Combeferre reached up to cup Courfeyrac’s cheek in the palm of his hand.

“I would rather go to the Shatterdome,” he said, pronouncing each word slowly. He hoped that the contorted expression on his face would be able to convey the request that he didn’t have the strength to put into words. “Please?”

Courfeyrac pulled him to his chest, fisting the material of his own cardigan wrapped around Combeferre’s shoulders as he tightened his embrace. He nodded once, twice, three times.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He continued to repeat his apology. “Of course we can go back there.” He released Combeferre so that he could wipe his nose with his shirt sleeve. “Let me just tell Bahorel what’s going on.”

* * *

The winter wind escorted back out to the car. A bleary-eyed Bahorel sat rubbing his eyes in the front seat while Courfeyrac helped Combeferre into the backseat, supporting his elbow to keep him steady, and then crawled in next to him. Bahorel kept the radio on low so that the warning about the Kaiju repeated in a constant loop in the background, providing a somber soundtrack to their journey.

Bahorel glanced into the rearview mirror, temporarily taking his attention from the sparse highway traffic. He caught Courfeyrac’s eye and smirked. Combeferre had his eyes closed and was resting his head against Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “I’m glad you two have worked things out,” he said.

In truth, every motion of the car sent pinpricks of pain shooting through Combeferre’s body. Every jerk of the wheel and every little bump sent spikes of pain through his arms and legs. The hand holding Courfeyrac’s trembled. 

Courfeyrac’s heart was full to the brim with sadness. He watched the snowflakes melting on the windshield and collected them one by one as they landed on the glass until there was so much emotion in his mind that it threatened to spill over. His whole body fought against the onslaught, not accepting it but resisting it at every turn. But the inertia propelled him forward, even if that was the last way he wanted to be moving.

With Bahorel’s help, they were able to support both sides of Combeferre on the way through the floor of the abandoned warehouse and on the ride down to the Shatterdome. With a wince, Combeferre brought his index and middle fingers up to his lips. The elevator hummed around them. Courfeyrac silently handed him a handkerchief that he had had the foresight to bring along with them.

Both Feuilly and Jehan were preoccupied with typing on the computers in the control room, with strings of letters and numbers flashing rapid fire across the screen. Bossuet looked on over Feuilly’s shoulder as another screen emitted beeping noises. Combeferre offhandedly translated the Morse code in his head, more out of reflex than actual desire to know what it said. _Coordinates_ , he realized with a start.

Enjolras and Joly were the first to notice their arrival.

“What were you thinking? Why did you bring him back here?” Enjolras demanded in exasperation. His clothes were wrinkled from two days’ use and dark circles accented the blue of his eyes. Grantaire followed in his footsteps, his hair leaving wet stains on the collar of his shirt. 

Courfeyrac did not respond immediately. He instead elected to help ease Combeferre into one of the high backed leather chairs. He eased the old handkerchief out of Combeferre’s hand and traded it with another one - one that was red so that the bloodstain wouldn’t look as terrible as it really was.

“The good news is that we figured out what was wrong with the Drift. Something was off in the calibration,” Feuilly reported, pushing himself up from his own chair and stepping away from the monitors. “But we’re confident we have it running well enough for now. The three-person Drift is a go." 

“We need you. You can Drift with anyone,” Enjolras said, turning the full force of his gaze on Courfeyrac. He shouldered his way past Joly so that he could reach Courfeyrac. “We need to distract the Kaiju until the real Jaeger shows up. Otherwise, a lot of people are going to die.”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, his voice quiet but sharp. “Can you give us a minute?” His focus was back on Combeferre. He had grown dangerously quiet in comparison to the other chaos in the control room. He crouched down so that they at the same eye level. He wondered if this had been Combeferre's plan all along - he'd known that the only way Courfeyrac would return was if he was there.

“Give them some space,” Joly urged, drawing Enjolras and Grantaire away.

“I can’t leave you,” Courfeyrac said as soon as they had room to breathe. “If I leave, you might not be here when I get back.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes flashed with an undetectable emotion - half melancholy and half anger. “We’ve killed you,” he said. He looked down at his hands as if they were still stained with blood. “I’m so sorry we’ve killed you.”

“I knew what I was getting into,” Combeferre replied, careful to keep his voice steady, the way he would talk to someone standing precariously close to the edge of a cliff. "I always knew there'd be a risk. But don’t worry about me right now.”

“I always worry about you,” Courfeyrac confessed. He opened his mouth to argue, but Combeferre spoke over him.

“Go,” Combeferre said. His tone left no room for any further argument. “You need to go.”

And for the next few moments, everything else fell away. There was no one else in the world except for them.

Courfeyrac sifted through words and phrases, trying to fit a lifetime of meaning into such a short space of time. There was so much to say and he didn’t even know where to begin.

Combeferre angled in his chair so that he could face Courfeyrac. He pressed a kiss to his lips. He pulled back and looked at his face, scrutinizing it as if he didn’t want to forget a single detail. His gaze moved from the barely discernible wrinkles underneath his eyes to the parenthesis-shaped folds of skin that bracketed his lips.

Courfeyrac ended up saying the first thing that popped into his mind. “You can’t leave me. I already planned our wedding," he blurted. "Isn’t that crazy?”

“You got a little ahead of yourself, didn’t you?” Combeferre said. He managed to crack a smile, even though it made his head hurt. “Hey? You know what? I would have said yes.”

“God, I love you.” Courfeyrac cupped Combeferre’s face in his hands and kissed him, the longing he felt lingering on his lips. Combeferre’s hand darted to Courfeyrac’s neck, keeping him exactly where he was so that he could give him two more kisses. Courfeyrac feared that his knees might buckle at any moment. “I love you so much. Please don’t forget that.”

“Courfeyrac, we have to get to work. Now.” Enjolras demanded. He crossed his arms.

“I won’t forget,” Combeferre assured him. He blinked and felt momentarily transported back to the night when Courfeyrac had first taken him to the Wall. He echoed those fateful words now, hoping that they might serve as a source of reassurance. “Go on. You have to go change the world.”

“No, no, no, I said _we’re_ going to change the world, remember?” Courfeyrac reminded him. “That means you too.”

“I know. But right here is just where I want to be.”

“Come on, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said again. He looked just about ready to drag Courfeyrac away by the arm. “We’re wasting time.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” he said quickly. He swiped at his cheeks with the back of his hands, chasing away the tears there. He kissed Combeferre one last time and then stood up again. “You, I love you. And you better be here when I get back.”

“I love you, too, but I can’t make any promises,” Combeferre said. He watched the three of his friends retreat until they turned a corner and he could no longer see them.

He grasped the arms of the chair and pushed himself up. The handkerchief was abandoned on the seat of his chair.

Joly materialized somewhere near his elbow. They exchanged a single look before Combeferre collapsed into his arms.

Joly’s arms tightened around his shoulders. He cried, his shoulders shaking and his chest heaving. Joly kept holding him until he needed to breathe but couldn’t for the life of him remember how to take another breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give another shout-out to Jenny for all her help with this fic. Thank you so much for listening and providing your input. I honestly wouldn't be able to do it without you.


	15. Chapter 15

“You’re going to be a hero,” Enjolras said, as they walked shoulder to shoulder down the hallway toward the elevator. The words sounded as if they had been sent through a sheet of plywood before reaching his ears. They echoed once, then twice, before his brain was able to process them. Courfeyrac never thought he’d become a hero like this.

When he’d been growing up, Courfeyrac had wanted nothing more than to be a superhero. Somewhere in his childhood home in central Minnesota, he was sure that his solid oak bookshelves, lovingly crafted by his father, were still full of pristine-condition comic books. He prided himself on owning all of the Batmans and a good portion of the Supermans. But without a doubt, his favorite superhero had to be Spiderman. Because Spiderman never really seemed like a real hero at first glance, at least not in the same way that Batman and Superman were heroic with their sheer strength. There was something about Peter Parker’s ingenuity that left him a little breathless each time he poured over those comics.

The rose-red blanket that he used to knot around his throat like a cape and the wispy white clumps of yarn that he had used to simulate webs were probably accumulating dust in a cardboard box somewhere in the attic above his parents’ master bedroom.

Courfeyrac had always admired and respected superhero stories from afar. Because here’s what they don’t tell you about being a superhero, or any hero in general, for that matter: sometimes the responsibility weighs so heavily on your shoulders that you can feel your body aching all the way down to your kneecaps. It hurts so badly that you can feel the pain radiating to the tips of your toes. From a safe distance, it’s easy to be blinded by the ideals of restoring justice and the quest for truth.

But what no one tells you is that being a hero sometimes means gritting your teeth and leaving behind the only person who you would want to be cowardly for. Being a hero means walking away without the reassurance that things will be the same when you return.

Courfeyrac’s stomach dropped in alarm. He couldn’t remember the elevator doors closing.

The elevator whirred around them as it conveyed them to the ground floor. Courfeyrac lifted a hand and rested it on the cool metal wall, suddenly in desperate need of support as his thoughts finally caught up to him.

_What are you doing?_ His own voice cried out. _You can’t leave!_

Courfeyrac’s knees buckled as he sank to the floor, his hand sliding down the stainless steel surface of the wall. Courfeyrac brought both hands to his head and used his palms to cover his ears. He increased the pressure until he realized that all the anguished noises that he was trying to block out were coming from inside his own head.

A hand gripped his right shoulder. Courfeyrac squeezed his eyes shut as he felt another hand begin to rub slow, rhythmic circles on his back. The callouses on uneven skin told him it was Grantaire without needing to look. He remembered the last time he had used this same gesture to soothe Grantaire, and he couldn’t help but wince at how much things had changed.

Grantaire was never the one to willingly offer comfort. Then again, these were extraordinary circumstances.

“Everything alright?” came Grantaire’s voice, muffled as it traveled through the barrier of Courfeyrac’s fingers. Enjolras squatted down in front of him, steady on his knees. The elevator hummed as it continued moving downward. Courfeyrac wanted nothing more for the world to be still, just for one goddamn minute.

Enjolras reached out and gently grasped Courfeyrac’s wrists and lowered them, his own grip warm against Courfeyrac’s clammy skin. He held both hands within his own as he waited for Courfeyrac to look him in the eye. 

“You’re doing the right thing,” Enjolras said, careful to keep his voice steady. He released Courfeyrac’s hands and tucked two stray locks of Courfeyrac’s hair behind his ear so that he could see clearly.

“It doesn’t feel like the right thing,” Courfeyrac managed. He tried desperately to swallow the lump forming in his throat.

“The people need _you_ ,” Enjolras started, the fire kindling in his eyes. His rousing speech died on his tongue as he met Grantaire’s gaze. Grantaire gave a curt shake of his head as if to signal, _Not now._

“Let’s get out there and take it down so you can get back, yeah?” Grantaire said. His hand continued its soothing motion against his back. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return.”

Courfeyrac worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he nodded. “You sure it’s ready for three people? We could hardly get it to work more than a minute with just two…”

Enjolras began to speak again as it became clear that Courfeyrac wouldn’t be able to finish his sentence.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Luckily, Combeferre is a meticulous note-taker. Feuilly was able to study them while you two were gone. He knows where we went wrong, and he was able to fix it. Besides, do we really have another choice?”

“Look, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said, diverting his attention away from Enjolras. Reading the emotional tone of situations had never been Grantaire’s forte, but at least he was better at it than Enjolras was. “We need to distract it for a bit. We promise that we’ll come back as soon as the real Jaeger shows up. Right, Enjolras?” he said pointedly.

Enjolras nodded but did not give his word. Courfeyrac figured that it was the most he could ask for. Enjolras straightened and offered both hands to help Courfeyrac stand up.

Courfeyrac remained in the elevator as Grantaire and Enjolras filed out ahead of him. Grantaire held his arm out to prevent the elevator door from closing.

If he really was doing the right thing, why did it feel like he needed to hit the button to take him back up so he could apologize? Why did every step that carried him to the elevator and away from Combeferre feel like a betrayal?

The doors automatically tried to close twice before Grantaire said, “You coming?”

Courfeyrac blinked. He took a deep breath, his shoulders shuddering as he exhaled. He shuffled out of the elevator, and he squinted as the bright light of the loading area irritated his eyes. He gritted his teeth and tried to block out that desperate voice in the back of his head that was still sending apologies in the direction of the control room.

_I’m sorry I had to leave,_ he thought. The voice in his head didn’t sound like it belonged to him anymore. _But I promise I’ll try to come back to you._

* * *

Combeferre stared at the coffee maker in the break room. He braced himself on the counter, his knuckles white, as a wave of nausea sent his stomach reeling. He released his grip and swatted the side of the machine as a point in the center of his forehead began to throb. It took him another second to realize he was taking his own frustration out on an inanimate object.

“Here, move over a bit,” Joly said beside him. His fingers were as gentle as a lover’s touch as they drifted over the buttons. A few seconds passed and the machine sputtered to life. “See? It just needs a little persuasion.”

Combeferre watched the stream of coffee filter into the pot. The fingers of steam curled around the stream of brownish liquid. He wondered how much longer he would be around to battle with the machine in this decrepit break room, with its peeling white paint and single flickering light bulb.

_Don’t think,_ his brain reminded him. At that moment, Joly’s trained his eyes on Combeferre.

“Thinking will only make it worse,” he said, as if he had been able to read Combeferre’s mind. He spoke candidly, knowing that Combeferre would appreciate him doing so. “Either you’ll hold on long enough to see him again or you won’t. There’s no use agonizing over other outcomes.”

“As usual, you’re right,” Combeferre agreed. He turned to rummage in the cabinet nearby for two clean mugs. He held them out to Joly, who filled a cup for Feuilly and then one for himself. Combeferre trailed close behind him as they returned to the control room.

“They should be suiting up now,” Feuilly reported, as Joly leaned over his shoulder for an update. Combeferre pushed a chair next to the monitor and nudged a fresh cup of coffee closer to Feuilly’s hand. “I’m just waiting for them to hook into the system so we can initiate the Drift.”

But instead of reaching for the coffee, Feuilly’s hand clasped Combeferre’s. He studied Combeferre’s puffy red eyelids and pale cheeks. The red handkerchief was tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. A single corner of red was visible.

“Are you sure you want to be here?” he asked, punctuating his question by tightening his grip around Combeferre’s hand. It seemed like a trivial question to ask, especially since he already knew the answer. But he wanted to hear Combeferre say it all the same.

Combeferre swiveled in his chair so that he could completely face Feuilly. He offered a smile as he said, “There’s no place I’d rather be. Well, except maybe in the Jaeger, that is.”

Feuily exchanged a look with Joly, who had edged himself up onto the desk, his legs hanging over the edge. Their eyes met over Combeferre’s shoulder as Joly took a small sip of his own coffee. Feuilly withdrew his hand.

He inputted a code on his monitor and then pulled open one of the three drawers on the left side of the desk. He fumbled with a tangle of black cords until he found what he was looking for. He plugged the silver jack into one of the ports near his monitor, stretched out the cord, and offered an ear piece to Combeferre.

“You don’t have a mic because Jehan needs the other functioning one,” Feuilly said with an apologetic gesture to his own headset. “But at least you can hear what’s going on.”

Joly, perking up at the sound of the elevator dinging down the hall, edged off of the desk. He made a beeline to the door.

“Thank you,” Combeferre said. He adjusted the little black headphone into his right ear, so that he would still be able to hear Feuilly on his left side. He swiveled around in his chair as he heard a commotion behind him. He was careful not to tangle himself in his own cord. Another wave of nausea washed over him as he rotated around in his chair.

He turned around, which enabled him to see what was going on. Joly held the door to the control room open to admit the rest of his friends. Jehan, with a white plaster casts still encasing his leg, hobbled forward on his crutches beside Bossuet. Bahorel followed along behind them.

Joly greeted Bossuet with a peck on the cheek, wary of displays of affection in front of Combeferre. He helped to lead Jehan over to the empty chair on the other side of Feuilly at the control desk, where he would give Feuilly an extra hand with monitoring the Jaeger. Feuilly set to work untangling the cord of the other functioning headset for Jehan.

Meanwhile, Bossuet and Bahorel lowered themselves into their chairs and rolled themselves closer to the desk for moral support. Joly hopped up onto his place on the cleared-off desk. After he settled, his hand sought Bossuet’s. Bahorel leaned back in his own chair, supporting his head with his fingers threaded together at the back of his skull.

Combeferre heard a series of three high pitched beeps in his earset as the portions of the screens displaying each Pilot’s vitals suddenly lit up. Combeferre scanned the readings. He focused on the three pulses, one of which measured significantly higher than the other two.

“Feuilly?” came Enjolras’ voice over the radio. “We’re suited up and ready to go.”

“How’s Courf holding up?” Feuilly inquired. “His pulse is a bit high.”

Feuilly briefly thought about mentioning that he wasn’t the only one listening to their transmission, but he hesitated at the last second. Something inside him, though he did not know what it was, held him back.

“He’s hanging in there,” Grantaire replied. “Aren’t you, Courf?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” came the third voice. Combeferre’s heart ached in his chest to know that Courfeyrac was okay. He was still alive and connected to him, even if he didn’t know it.

“Is Combeferre alright?” Courfeyrac asked next. In the background, Combeferre could hear the metallic snapping of the leg pieces as the three of them locked their suits into place.

In a functioning Shatterdome, they would have had mechanics to help them hook in securely. He wished they would have had the added benefit of an extra set of eyes checking out the suits and making sure they were working properly, if only for the peace of mind. He wanted to be the one to kiss Courfeyrac’s forehead and settle his helmet over his head. He tried to douse the yearning where it burned like fire in his chest.

“Yep. He wants you to know that the bleeding has stopped and he’s doing fine,” Feuilly said with a sideways glance at Combeferre.

“Good. You guys take care of him, okay? In case I don’t make it back?” Courfeyrac said, his voice threaded with an unsettling type of finality. Like he was saying goodbye.

Combeferre lurched out of his chair, sending it wheeling backward. He crouched down a little so that he could press his cheek against Feuilly’s. He wanted to make sure he would be heard loud and clear.

“You’re coming back,” he said, directly into the mic. “Don’t you say goodbye yet.”

Feuilly gave him a push in his side to ease him away. Courfeyrac didn’t need any more distractions.

“Combeferre says hi,” Feuilly said, rolling his eyes.

“Tell him I love him,” Courfeyrac said quickly, knowing that Enjolras was going to jump in and cut him off at any moment.

“For God’s sake, can we use the relay system for important communications only?” Jehan said with a sigh. His hopeless romantic side had no sympathy for him now that the Kaiju’s coordinates were now dangerously close to the coast.

Combeferre carefully sat back down into his chair, knowing that that was his last chance at jumping in. He massaged his right side with his hand as a shooting pain radiated from his femur to his rib cage. He gritted his teeth and did the best he could to ignore it. He desperately hoped that he wasn’t giving himself away. He knew Joly would whisk him away at the first sign of discomfort.

“Okay, so, all three of you know the objective for this mission, right?” Feuilly said before Courfeyrac could protest. He realized it didn’t matter, though, since Enjolras had taken over all communication. “Try to keep the Kaiju from making landfall. If you do that, we run the least risk of civilian casualties. Try to keep it in the ocean, too, if you can.”

“We’ll do our best,” Enjolras replied.

“Grantaire? Still with us?” Feuilly said with a glance back to their vitals. Combeferre noticed that Grantaire’s pulse was nearly identical to Courfeyrac’s. They were both pounding out 115 beats per minute.

“Yep. I’m here,” Grantaire’s voice crackled over the radio. Was it just bad reception or did his voice always sound so strained?

“Great. Initiating the Drift in five,” Jehan began the countdown. Combeferre observed their fingers flying over the keyboard, punching in memorized combinations. Their heads darted up every so often to check the screens.

There was no fanfare, no cheering, no swell of orchestral music to serve as a soundtrack for the scene. Nothing to indicate the heroism and the bravery of what they were doing. All he could hear was three sets of steady breathing from the other line and the sound of fingers clicking against the keyboard.  
  
Combeferre straightened his leg momentarily so that he could pull out his handkerchief. He pressed it to his nose just in time to quell the steady stream of blood flowing from his right nostril. Combeferre pretended not to notice Joly’s frown.

“Drift is steady and holding,” Feuilly said at last. “How does it feel?”

“Better.” It was Courfeyrac’s voice again. “It feels like I’m finally carrying my weight.”

“You have to tell me now if you need anything adjusted. As soon as you get it moving, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Feels alright for me,” Enjolras reported.

“Grantaire?” Jehan prompted. “Feel okay?”

“Fine. Yes, it’s fine,” came the hasty response.

“Well, boys,” Feuilly said, unable to resist cracking a small grin. “Let’s stretch her legs.”

* * *

In unison, the three Pilots began to move the legs of the Jaeger with coordinated movements. Grantaire was hooked into the left side, Courfeyrac into the middle station, and Enjolras into the right side. Though Courfeyrac did not control either of the arms or legs, he helped to balance out the neural load. It would be easier for the other two to fight with the Drift divided as it currently was.

“How did you guys get so good at this?” Courfeyrac wondered aloud. "You're both naturals." 

“We're not, but we're good at pretending like we are,” Enjolras replied. His thoughts wandered to all the time he and Grantaire had spent alone in this very Jaeger preparing for this kind of a situation. Courfeyrac’s mind responded with his own sense of appreciation for their preparation. He never would have been ready if he hadn’t already taken down a few Kaijus with Marius in the past.

Grantaire grimaced as the metal infrastructure controlling the legs resisted his movements. It was like trying to walk on a treadmill with a stationary band. He clutched his teeth together and willed himself to keep moving. However, clenching his teeth together only served to aggravate the headache already building behind his eyes.

It was only when he looked off to his side that he noticed that Enjolras and Courfeyrac were both staring at him, even though they were working hard to maintain their rhythm in order to keep the Jaeger moving steadily forward. He knew the machine shouldn’t be so resistant to him, but he kept trying to force it anyway.

_Why didn’t you say anything?_ Enjolras’ voice came sharp in his head. Grantaire hadn’t known that the Drift would allow Enjolras to speak to him in this way.

_What? How did you know?_ He thought, hoping that would be enough to keep out of the transmission. He didn’t want to alarm Feuilly or Jehan, especially if there was nothing they could do about it now.

_We’re both in your head, remember?_ Courfeyrac said pointedly. Grantaire could feel the fear coming from Courfeyrac’s end of the Drift as he internally wondered if he was bound for the same fate as Combeferre. Also coming from Courfeyrac’s end were many disjointed thoughts about his previous time in a Jaeger with Marius. It was chaos in Courfeyrac’s mind, yet he projected the utmost concern not for himself but for Grantaire. _Will you be able to handle it?_

“I don’t have a choice now,” he elected to say out loud, hoping that would be enough to shut both of them up. Otherwise, they ran the risk of giving themselves away. He was having enough trouble as it was concentrating on his work without hearing their worried voices in his head.

It was finally his chance to prove that he was important, that he could do something without completely messing up. He’d been a failure all of his life, but he wasn’t going to be one today. This was his chance and nothing was going to stop him.

The metal of the Jaeger shuttered as the loading dock opened into the ocean. The waves lapped at the shins of the Jaeger as they waded into gradually deeper water. With a few touches to the monitor, Courfeyrac was able to bring up the radar with the position of the Kaiju. The blinking light remained on the screen as they continued onward.

Grantaire raised his head, even though his neck was already throbbing, and tried to focus on the color of the sky. The visor of the Jaeger was tinted to prevent UV exposure. As a result, the color of the sunset looked muted and grey, not at all what it should have looked like.

“How’s everyone doing?” Feuilly’s voice sounded again. “Your vitals look good and the Drift is holding at one hundred percent.”

“Everything’s fine,” Enjolras reported. A sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead from the exertion. He tried to swat away the urge to edge off his helmet and drag the back of his hand over his forehead to clear it.

“Good. The Kaiju is about five miles ahead. You should be seeing it soon.”

Five minutes passed in complete silence as the three focused on keeping the Jaeger moving. It was harder than Courfeyrac had ever anticipated that it would be. How had he gone to kissing Combeferre in bed to piloting a Jaeger in less than five hours? Is it possible that his whole world could have been turned upside down in such a short space of time?

“Focus, Courfeyrac,” came Enjolras’ warning. His words were as sharp as broken glass.

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac said hastily. He was prone to forget that other people had access to his thoughts. He did his best to keep his mind blank.

“Kaiju ahead,” Enjolras relayed to Feuilly. “We have visual.”

Courfeyrac swallowed in an attempt to alleviate the dryness in his throat. It had been years since he had actually seen one up close. In truth, it wasn’t any less terrifying than the first time he’d confronted one. But his own anxiety was nothing compared to the terror coming through from Grantaire’s side of the Drift. Courfeyrac could feel a type of fear that made his own organs feel like they were floating around of their own accord in his torso.

“Grantaire, breathe,” Courfeyrac advised. Grantaire forced himself to inhale as soon as he realized he had been holding his breath. The Kaiju was still facing away from them, treading water, having not noticed the Jaeger yet.

They slowed their approach slightly and powered down the engines to a lower gear in order to avoid startling it. If they could just take it from behind and get it over with, they could be back to the Shatterdome in forty five minutes at the most.

As they approached it, Courfeyrac carefully observed its movements. The Kaiju floated in the water and was staring up. Above it, the sky was a shade of red, almost as if it was bleeding. The Kaiju was just observing the sky, not doing anything particularly threatening. Courfeyrac tried not to see it as an ominous sign.

By now, the Jaeger was treading water up to its knees. At least they had the advantage of trying to distract it in relatively shallow water instead of having to deal with it in the middle of the ocean.

“Here we go,” Enjolras said before beginning to count down from ten. He clenched his right hand, while his other hand sought the button for the plasma cannon. He fumbled and he swore under his breath as he tried to remember which one was the correct button.

“Just a few more inches to your right,” Courfeyrac informed him as he understood what he was doing. Enjolras’ left hand slammed over the correct button and he tightened his other fist. Courfeyrac waited for a full minute with baited breath.

Nothing happened. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own pulse throbbing in his ears. The right side of the Jaeger remained silent, not filled with the tell-tale hum of the cannon charging up.

“It’s a no-go on the plasma cannon,” Enjolras reported to Feuilly.

Feuilly swore loudly in his ear. He took a moment to compose himself before saying, “Well, there are other ways to kill a Kaiju. Time to start thinking creatively.”

“If we can get close enough for a clear shot, the missiles might work,” Courfeyrac proposed. He sought for Grantaire in his mind, not having heard from him in a while. _Grantaire?_

Grantaire met his gaze and Courfeyrac frowned as he noticed that Grantaire was struggling to stay conscious. Grantaire blinked rapidly, attempting to clear the spots that had appeared in his vision.

“Enjolras - ” Courfeyrac tried to get his attention. Enjolras hadn’t even noticed the change from Grantaire’s side of the Drift.

“Here we go,” Enjolras said over him. Courfeyrac braced himself for a fight. He cleared his mind and bent his knees to prevent them from locking. 

The Kaiju reared back on its hind legs, having now spotted them. It lurched toward them with an ear-splitting roar. Its beady black eyes flashed and reflected the Jaeger’s visor right back at them. If they looked closely enough, they would have been able to see their own silhouettes.

“Move to the right!” Enjolras ordered. They were able to maneuver themselves to the right, with a step back from the leg Grantaire was controlling and a twist of the torso from both Enjolras and Courfeyrac. The Kaiju lunged and completely missed them, instead finding itself moving through the empty air where the left shoulder of the Jaeger had been only moments previously.

“Duck!” Courfeyrac cried out next. The three simultaneously brought the Jaeger into a crouching position just as the Kaiju flew over its head.

“Something already got this one riled up,” Courfeyrac commented.

While the Kaiju worked to reorient itself, they turned the Jaeger around until they had the shoreline, with only the vaguest hint of the beach, in sight. That way, at least the Kaiju would be fighting them in a way that put it away from the shore and forced it to move deeper into the ocean.

They sidestepped one more time to the left as the Kaiju came charging toward them. Enjolras bit down on his lip as he waited for the opportune moment. Just as the Kaiju passed the place where their arm had been only seconds before, he raised his fisted hand and gave it a sideways punch.

The Kaiju let out a high-pitched screech, which evoked the memory in Grantaire of a long-forgotten elementary school teacher whose chalk scraped against the blackboard. Grantaire was still thinking about that teacher as the Kaiju disappeared beneath the waves.

“Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” Courfeyrac swore. Now they couldn’t anticipate where its attacks would come from. Both Enjolras and Grantaire clenched their respective fists and braced themselves for impact.

Frantic beeping sounded as they tried to figure out what was happening. It took Grantaire’s scream of pain for them to realize that the Kaiju had attacked them from behind. Grantaire shook his arm frantically, trying to dislodge the Kaiju’s jaw, which was clamped tightly around his elbow.

Enjolras brought his own clenched fist down onto the Kaiju’s skull, hoping that would be enough to disorient it. Instead, it only increased the pressure of its grip on Grantaire’s arm.

Courfeyrac grimaced as the pain seeped through to his side of the Drift. It felt like the bones in Grantaire’s left arm were being ground to dust. The Kaiju pivoted its head back and forth repeatedly and Courfeyrac cried out as he too felt the blinding pain of Grantaire’s arm steadily being wedged from its socket.

Grantaire was paralyzed by fear, but Courfeyrac found himself roused into action.

“Enjolras!” he roared. “Shoot at it!”

Enjolras lifted his hand and sought the trigger for the missiles embedded in the Jaeger’s fingertips. Two of the four missiles missed the target, their projectiles slightly off kilter, but one managed to hit its forehead and the other exploded somewhere near its eye. It fell back, but the added force of the missiles sending it spiraling backward with the arm of the Jaeger still tightly clenched in its jaw.

Courfeyrac clamped his eyes closed and listened to the sound of Grantaire’s agonized sobs. He breathed deeply, hoping to project a sense of calm to that side of the Drift.

“Hang in there, Grantaire,” he said out loud. Grantaire was beginning to feel further and further away from him. “Stay with us.”

“Stay with me,” Enjolras pleaded, his voice cracking.

* * *

The frenzied cries of Enjolras and Courfeyrac told Combeferre everything he needed to know. He felt lightheaded and the yelling on the other end wasn’t doing anything to alleviate his splitting headache. He tugged at the cord and watched as the headpiece fell out of his ear and clattered onto the desk. It was only when he reached up to massage the place where the ear piece had chafed against his skin that he noticed the steady stream of blood dripping down his earlobe. Joly furrowed his eyebrows as he observed Combeferre.

“I need to lie down,” Combeferre announced. There was no other way for him to put into words the distress that was eating away at him, which caused his stomach to feel like it was impossibly heavy. He had heard enough. He was lightheaded and he feared that he was going to lose consciousness at any moment now. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and tried to focus on the sensation of his tensed muscles to keep himself present.

Bossuet’s head turned toward him so quickly that Combeferre could hear his neck crack. His eyes flickered to the drops on his earlobe and he frowned. He shrugged off the sweatshirt he was wearing and offered to Combeferre, who accepted it with a quiet thank you.

Combeferre pushed himself out of his chair, but he stood up too quickly. The blood rushed to his head and he staggered sideways. Joly hastened to his side, helping to steady him with a firm grip on his forearm.

Joly led him away from the control desk and over to the opposite corner of the control room, away from the action. Joly backed up against one of the walls, sliding himself down slowly and using the drywall to support his back. He crossed his legs and gestured for Combeferre to join him. Combeferre sat down with his back facing Joly and then steadily reclined until his head was supported by Joly’s folded legs. How had Joly known exactly what he needed? He didn't know how he'd known, but he was grateful for it. 

“How is your head? I don’t want to touch it if it hurts,” Joly said, careful to keep his voice quiet.

“It’s alright.” Combeferre said as he stretched his legs out in front of him. He huddled into the folds of sweatshirt. It was at least a size too big for him, but that was just the way he liked it.

Combeferre closed his eyes as he felt Joly remove his glasses. His warm fingertips were absent for a few seconds. Combeferre offered the handkerchief out in his quivering palm now that the blood from his nosebleed had lessened. Joly took it and wedged it under Combeferre’s ear to capture the stray droplets of blood.

His fingers soon found Combeferre’s forehead again. Joly carded his fingers through Combeferre’s hair. He massaged his scalp near the back of his head. Everything ached, and his arms felt like lead. Combeferre couldn’t bear to move another inch, let alone breathe, but Joly’s touch helped him to feel more at ease.

Combeferre preferred the way that Courfeyrac had done it when they were in bed together, but he did not open his mouth to complain. Instead, he listened to Joly’s voice as he repeated the same phrase.

“It’s okay.” Combeferre pretended not to feel Joly’s tears land on his face. Joly carefully swept Combeferre’s hair away from his eyes. “I promise you’re going to be okay.”

* * *

“We can run or we can keep fighting,” Enjolras said in Courfeyrac’s other ear.

“Keep fighting with one arm and an injured pilot?” Courfeyrac shot back. “He’s going to lose consciousness. That means you and I will have to carry the weight of a three person Drift and fight at the same time.”

While they spoke, the Kaiju occupied itself with chewing up the metal arm. It spit out dented metal. The dark blue arm, marred with tooth marks, slipped beneath the waves and out of sight.

“Well, make up your mind!” Enjolras snapped.

“Get moving!” Courfeyrac ordered. They shuffled their feet in a way that permitted them to orbit the Kaiju, whose awkward, asymmetrical body was not good at dealing with that particular kind of motion. As they kept the Jaeger moving, Courfeyrac tried to communicate with Feuilly.

“How close are they, Feuilly?” he asked. How much time they had before the real thing showed up would help him decide what to do next.

“They’re still about twenty minutes away, but they’re coming,” Feuilly reported.

_Grantaire won’t be able to make it twenty more minutes,_ Enjolras said solemnly in his head in a moment of quiet between Grantaire’s agonized moaning.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Courfeyrac said quickly. “Let’s see if we can get a good enough shot for the actual missiles to work. If we can, let’s wound it and get out of here.”

They started moving the Jaeger in a diagonal path now, switching away from their circular orbit. They moved themselves backward in order to give the Kaiju a chance to reorient itself. If the missiles were going to work properly, they needed a straight shot.

As the Kaiju began careening toward them, Enjolras flipped the switch to activate the missiles.  
  
“Now!” Courfeyrac said, as the Kaiju approached them, its chest gloriously unprotected from the trajectory of their missiles. Enjolras hit the launch button with his thumb once and then twice. He hit it a third time before a string of curses tore through the air.

“THE MISSILES WON’T FIRE!” he screamed, sure that Feuilly could hear him. He was sure the people in China could probably hear him. Their one chance at a clear shot had vanished.

Both he and Courfeyrac crouched down to duck as the Kaiju jumped. Its tail, swishing back and forth in the air as the Kaiju attempted to regain its balance, hit the head of the Jaeger as it soared over them.

The Jaeger was uncomfortably silent for a full minute. Courfeyrac counted the seconds as they passed in order to give him something to distract himself from the sheer pain that threatened to cause his knees to buckle. Something shifted in Enjolras’ side of the Drift. No longer was he feeling desperation. It was now sheer determination coming from his mind.

“I know what I have to do,” he announced. The intensity of his voice sent a shiver coursing down Courfeyrac’s spine.

“No,” Courfeyrac said sharply. “There has to be another way.”

“Look,” Enjolras interrupted. “We can do this and run the risk of being able to take it down completely or we can admit defeat and drag our sorry asses back to shore.”

“What’s wrong with admitting defeat?” Courfeyrac said, struggling to fight back tears. “I would rather admit defeat and have you both come back with me.”

“No,” Enjolras said simply. He leaned forward and pressed the button that temporarily muted their microphones. “Besides, if anyone finds out about what we’ve done, everyone will get into trouble. I’d much rather get rid of the evidence. And someone has to be in here to override the safeties so that the engine will meltdown properly.”

Courfeyrac frowned as he felt his rigging tighten around his neck and legs, hindering his range of motion. He’d only felt this one time before when he’d had to do an emergency exit after one of the Jaegers malfunctioned during his training.

“Enjolras, _goddammit_ ,” he said. His resolve steadily deflated like a stream of air being released from a balloon. Of course the one thing that was working in the Jaeger were the escape pods. “Don’t - no - _stop it._ ”

Enjolras was about to hit the button for Grantaire to be encased in an additional escape pod. But a steady voice sounded in their minds that temporarily caused them to stop what they were doing. Enjolras’ finger hovered over a large red button, while Courfeyrac stopped struggling. The escape pod continued unfolding around him.

“I want to stay,” Grantaire croaked. “With you.”

_You shouldn’t have to die alone,_ Grantaire’s voice added in both Courfeyrac’s and Enjolras’ heads. Enjolras had never felt as selfish as he did when he withdrew his finger from the button that would have sent Grantaire to safety.

_It’s okay._  Grantaire consoled him. _I’m dying anyway._

“No, no, no, no,” Courfeyrac repeated, the word stuck on his tongue. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He couldn’t just leave now. Enjolras squared his shoulders and nodded before inputting the final sequence of buttons to release Courfeyrac.

“Forgive me,” Enjolras said, as Courfeyrac was tilted horizontally onto his back, only seconds away from launch. “This is the best use of my life right now.”

“Mine, too,” Grantaire contributed.

“Feuilly?” Enjolras said, removing his finger from the button and unmuting their microphones. “We’re going to need an escape pod pick up.”

“Got it,” Feuilly said over the line. “Just one or - ?”

But Enjolras cut off the line as a bright red warning flashed in their monitors. “NUCLEAR ENGINE MELTDOWN INITIATED” flashed across the screen. Enjolras began the process of overriding the first safety, which was currently threatening to cancel the meltdown. 

The warning was seared into the back of Courfeyrac’s eyelids as he was shot through an opening in the headpiece of the Jaeger in the escape pod.

He didn’t want to be alive. He didn’t want to be sent away at such a critical moment. It occurred to him that leaving people when they needed him the most was his only talent.

He closed his eyes and, for the first time in his life, he wished that he wouldn’t wake up.

* * *

“What’s going on?” Bossuet asked hurriedly. He glanced over at the place where Joly was still supporting Combeferre’s head in his lap. Bossuet’s fingers were beginning to feel numb from clenching them tightly into a fist for so long. His fingernails left half-moon indentations in his palms. “What are they doing?”

Feuilly’s mug had shattered on the floor where he had dropped it. His face was contorted in an unreadable expression. He lifted a shaking index finger and pointed to the right red banner on the top of the screen. Large white letters displayed the message: IMMINENT ENGINE MELTDOWN.

“But they’re still inside!” Bossuet exclaimed. The blood drained from his face.

“They did it on purpose,” Jehan said, his voice shaking. Bossuet looked straight to the ground, while Bahorel tried to blink back tears. “But they wouldn’t have had to if they would have only been able to wait fifteen more minutes. _Damn it._ ” He brought both his fists down onto the table. 

“We knew it might come down to this. They’d rather defeat it and lose their own lives.” Feuilly swallowed and directed his attention to the single pop-up window that displayed the vitals of the person in the escape pod. “Hopefully, he’ll be far enough away when the explosion goes off.”

Bahorel sprang to his feet. “Should I get the helicopter ready?”

“Yes. Please,” Feuilly said quietly. his mouth felt impossibly dry, and his brain scrambled to form his next sentence. “We have to rescue Courfeyrac.”

_Dammit, Enjolras._ Feuilly thought. It felt as though a fist was closing over his heart. He turned a single knob down so that the transmission from the Jaeger was silent and watched the countdown with his heart in his throat.

* * *

The Kaiju had resumed its attack on the Jaeger, now gnawing on the right shoulder. But Enjolras was disengaged from his own rig now. He instead moved toward Grantaire, who was still hanging limply from his own rig. Enjolras removed both of their helmets and stood in the way of the monitors so that Grantaire wouldn't be able to see the countdown.

Enjolras’ face shone with a sheen of sweat and his blue eyes glowed. The light hit his hair from behind in such a way that it illuminated him with a halo. It still made Grantaire’s breath catch in his throat, even though he had seen him look that way once before.

Enjolras reached out and held on to Grantaire’s uninjured hand. Grantaire could have sworn that his touch had healing powers because he was no longer in pain.

“That was cruel what you did to Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said. “It would have been easier for him to die with us.”

“It would have been the easy thing to do, yes, but not the right one," Enjolras replied. “He'll forgive me for it. Or at least I hope he will. How are you doing?”

Grantaire looked down at his arm, hanging limply in the rig. He had lost feeling in it a long time ago. He made a move that vaguely resembled a shrug.

“You are _so_ brave,” Enjolras said, his voice wavering. He smiled so widely that two dimples appeared on either side of his mouth. Enjolras stepped forward and cradled Grantaire’s jaw in both of his palms.

“I didn’t know you had dimples,” Grantaire observed. What else didn’t he know that he wouldn’t be able to discover now? Either way, his heart swelled with pride at the notion that he had been the one to cause Enjolras to smile that way. He was the one that had elicited that emotion. He was the one to make him feel proud in his final moments. Enjolras tilted his head and captured Grantaire’s lips in one last kiss, hoping that it would be reward enough for his bravery.

“I did the right thing for once in my life,” Grantaire managed after Enjolras pulled away. “It’s a miracle.”

“You did well,” Enjolras granted with a nod. And even though the Kaiju was still gnawing on the Jaeger’s shoulder and neck, the rest of the world seemed to fall away.

As the countdown reached its final five seconds, Grantaire looked into Enjolras’ eyes and thought of the blue of the sky and the blue of the marbles he used to play with as a child. He had a fleeing thought of blue butterfly wings that were arrested mid-flight.

Back in the control room, the single dot that marked the Jaeger's coordinates on the radar flickered and disappeared.

Only a single heartbeat, safely encased in an escape pod, remained on the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd like to thank Jenny from the bottom of my heart for everything that she's done for this fic. I don't know if I would have been able to finish it up without her support and her feedback on my drafts. Thank you very much!!
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Una, as well. Thanks to their encouragement, here I am exactly seven months after I posted the first chapter with only the epilogue left to go. 
> 
> Finally, thank you to all of you who have been reading this so far! You are all wonderful, and I hope you've been enjoying it. :)


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you from the very bottom of my heart to each and every one of you for taking the time to read this fic. I can't begin to express how much you all mean to me. Thank you for sticking through to the end! 
> 
> Also, [Jenny](http://j-j-k.tumblr.com) made a mix for this fic!! Check it out [here](http://8tracks.com/j-j-k/unauthorized). It's fantastic!! 
> 
> Finally, if you're interested in reading more, you can find the sequel to this fic [right here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3356243/chapters/7341815). :)

“You in the helicopter, do you read me? We can see you on the launch pad.”

Feuilly and Bahorel exchanged a glance from where they were working to strap themselves into the seats of the helicopter. The wind whipped around them, and the ocean water churned under the starry sky. White-capped waves extended as far as they could see. The transmission was muffled in the headset, barely audible from the earpiece resting against the dashboard. They had only just climbed into the helicopter, having finished removing the tarp, hinting at its age in the number of mismatched patches scattered across its surface, only moments before.

“Uh, yes?” Bahorel fiddled with the microphone on the headset. He cranked his head over his shoulder and squinted in the direction of the horizon.

“This is Chrome Brutus.” The sentence was slick on the Pilot’s tongue, as if his words were slipping on glare ice. “We’re closing in on the coast.”

Feuilly’s hands stilled. They dropped from the seatbelt that he was attempting to lock into place and fell like dead weights into his lap.

“If they could have held out for a few more minutes…” he said, his voice catching in his throat. He leaned forward and rested his head against the dashboard. He focused on the sensation of the cool surface on his forehead while he gathered his thoughts. He swallowed to choke down a completely inappropriate laugh at how the timing had worked out. Fighting the urge to laugh distracted him from the tears welling in his eyes. _Reinforcements had been so close._

“We picked up an escape pod on our way in. The readings on the vitals are steady,” the man reported. “We, uh, honestly didn’t know there was an operational Shatterdome this far south.”

Bahorel stared at the headset with a blank expression. Feuilly wouldn’t be surprised if Bahorel hadn’t heard any of the transmission. He extended his hand. He waited until he felt the telltale weight of the headset settling in his palm before raising his head and opening his eyes. He took a deep breath. His shoulders shuddered as the air rushed into his lungs.

“Zeke, is that you?” Feuilly inquired. He positioned the mic near his busted lower lip, still stained with blood from where his teeth had torn into it.

“Feuilly!” the man exclaimed, the tone of his voice visibly brightening. “You running this operation?”

“You could say that.”

“We were still fifteen miles out when we saw a Jaeger and a Kaiju disappear from the radar,” Zeke said. “We had to divert our course to avoid the debris from the explosion.” He ended his sentence with an upward inflection of his voice. His unspoken question hung heavily in the air.

“I’ll explain when you get here. By any chance, do either of you have medical experience?” Feuilly asked with bated breath. He waited patiently as the transmission went quiet. Feuilly listened to the Pilot’s breath as he spoke. The air sweeping over the microphone obscured the beginning of his message.

“Luckily, I have Flint with me. He’ll be able to help you out. You might recall that he has extensive medical experience at the Anchorage Shatterdome.”

“Perfect,” Feuilly said, the word exploding from his mouth. His heart picked up its pace in his chest, hammering against his ribcage. “We have a Pilot here suffering from neural overload.”

“We’ll see what we can do for him.”

“Thank you,” Feuilly breathed. Something twinged in his chest. It took another moment for him to identify the spark of emotion coursing through his veins. _Hope_.

Maybe they could save one more life.

* * *

Courfeyrac couldn’t do anything but stare up at the tiles of black metal that intersected to form the curved roof of the escape pod.

He’d been in one only once before, and he’d been able to see what was going on outside. But after the way everything else had turned out, he wasn’t the least bit surprised that the escape pod wasn’t functioning correctly. He surrendered himself to the surrounding darkness, willing himself not to feel anything at all.

The thoughts he did have were jumbled and incoherent. His fists ached from the repeated slamming on the sides of the pod. He kept doing it, his clenched fists beating out a staccato rhythm. After another minute, he let them drop down to his sides. No amount of pounding was going to change what had happened.

“Courf? Can you hear me?”

The words tumbled around in Courfeyrac’s mind. He squeezed his eyes shut at the assault of light. His eyes had only just adjusted to the darkness. It took a considerable effort for him to actually understand what was being said because none of the words seemed to be sticking.

A rush of cool air caressed his face. He decided it was time to open his eyes. He blinked once, then twice. He realized he was lying on the concrete floor of the loading area, gazing up at the arched ceiling of the Shatterdome. In his peripheral vision, he could see a sky blue Jaeger parked in one of the empty spaces, the engines whirring and steam rising from its legs as its systems powered down. He figured he was hallucinating and tried not to dwell on it.

“Courfeyrac?” Feuilly repeated. Cool fingers pushed the hair matted to his forehead with sweat away from his eyes.

“I can hear you,” Courfeyrac mumbled. His words didn’t feel like his own. He ran his tongue over his lips, hoping to alleviate his chapped skin. Feuilly and Bossuet’s hands worked around him, checking him for abrasions and bruises.

There was another clicking sound and he felt a current of air spread across his legs. He vaguely heard Feuilly tell Bahorel he only had a gash on his arm from where the escape pod had scraped him as it was closing over his body.

“Would you like to sit up?” Feuilly asked him. Courfeyrac nodded once. Feuilly and Bahorel helped to ease him to a sitting position. Bossuet appeared at Feuilly’s side with a bright orange shock blanket. Courfeyrac pulled it tightly around his shoulders. He gazed at the disengaged escape pod around him, the parts scattered like puzzle pieces.

“Did Combeferre make it?” Courfeyrac managed to ask. He hung his head and fiddled with the loose threads in the seams of the blanket as he waited for the answer.

“He’s not doing so well,” Bossuet informed him. “But he’s hanging on.”

Courfeyrac slowly raised his head. The back of his neck ached with the effort. “Take me to him?” he pleaded.

With Feuilly on one side and Bossuet on his other, they clutched at his elbows and helped him to stand. Courfeyrac lifted his arms and draped them over their shoulders. With their support on both sides, Courfeyrac retraced the path in reverse he had taken with Enjolras and Grantaire. He bit down on his lip, the sharp taste of blood filling his mouth.

_Don’t think,_ his brain ordered.

Bahorel, who had been following behind them, edged around Feuilly and pressed the button to call the elevator so that neither of his supports would have to readjust their grip.

The elevator was eerily quiet as it took the three of them back to the control room. Courfeyrac lifted his face so that he could better feel the feeble current of warm air overhead. He couldn’t remember when the heater in the elevator had begun working again. The stainless steel doors opened to admit them into the hallway and Bahorel rushed forward to hold open the door.

Every step that Courfeyrac took sent waves of pain cascading down his spine. He knew he wasn’t badly injured, but his muscles were strained and fatigued from the physical exertion of moving the Jaeger. Even the smallest motion of his soles shifting in the black leather boots of his Jaeger suit triggered pin-prinks of pain. He staggered along on unsteady legs, with Bousset supporting his right side and Feuilly supporting his left. Their arms overlapped across the curve of his spine. Courfeyrac lost track of how long it had took them to walk down the hallway and into the control room.

Courfeyrac grimaced as he realized he had finally come full circle.

“I’ll bring the Pilots up,” Bahorel said. His voice was unnaturally quiet.

The comment didn't make sense to him, but Courfeyrac didn’t have the energy to voice his confusion. Never was he more grateful to have Feuilly and Bossuet holding him up. In the corner of the room, Joly supported Combeferre’s head in his lap, running his fingers through Combeferre’s hair. Courfeyrac didn’t need to see any blood to know how bad it was. He pretended not to notice.

They led him over and helped to ease him down. The sensation of the floor against his tailbone sent a new wave of pain ricocheting up his spine. Without needing to be told, Joly edged over a few inches, still supporting Combeferre’s head. He waited until Courfeyrac was in the proper position before easing it back down into Courfeyrac’s lap.

Combeferre bent his arm, positioning it in a way that allowed Courfeyrac to take his hand over his shoulder, even if the position of his twisted arm was awkward. Combeferre’s hands felt heavy and his fingers were unresponsive. Courfeyrac sensed what he was doing and helped him to thread their fingers together.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac said, blinking quickly to remove the tears from his vision. If he didn’t clear them, he wouldn’t be able to see and he’d never be able to forgive himself for that. “I told you I’d come back.”

A half-smile crossed Combeferre’s face, but he did not open his eyes. Courfeyrac ducked his head and pressed a kiss to Combeferre’s burning forehead.

“You’re okay,” Courfeyrac told him. He inhaled in short, ragged breaths. “I’m here now.”

_Thank god, thank god, thank god._

The voice in his head finally sounded like it belonged to him.

* * *

_Two weeks later_

The mattress dipped as Courfeyrac climbed into bed. He looked around at Feuilly’s guest room as he waited for Combeferre to adjust his position.

The paint on the walls was still the same shade of off-white and the sheets on the mattress were still the same, albeit sent through the washer numerous times to remove the bloodstains, and the same lamp was positioned on top of the dresser. All of this had stayed the same, while the rest of their world had irrevocably changed.

Courfeyrac rested flat on his back, his head supported by two pillows. Combeferre clung to his side, his leg entwined with Courfeyrac’s. He rested his head on Courfeyrac’s chest so that he could listen to his heartbeat. Courfeyrac’s arm circled around Combeferre’s shoulder, pulling him closer still. Rain slipped down the windowpane. A single raindrop raced down the surface of the glass. The house was still.

“How are you feeling?” Courfeyrac asked, moving his head so that he could rest it on top of Combeferre’s. He closed his eyes as he waited for the answer.

“Better,” Combeferre said. He clutched at the fabric of Courfeyrac’s t-shirt, bunching the material in his fist. He thanked his lucky stars every day that the Pilot who treated him had had extensive experience dealing with neural overload. “Did you see the paper today?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac replied. The Kaiju attack was front page news, which was especially important in a place that did its best to communicate only critical news in a printed format. Paper was a commodity. But this had been an extraordinary circumstance that constituted the printing of a special issue. 

The worst part about it was that no one would ever know exactly what Grantaire and Enjolras had done. All they knew was that a Jaeger had shown up while they'd been hunkering down in the public shelters and taken down a Kaiju. They wouldn’t know how they had made the decision to self-destruct the Jaeger in order to protect them. They wouldn’t know that two Jaegers, one authorized and one unauthorized, had been involved.

They would never know what those two people had done for them because no evidence remained of their deed apart from the still-standing city. They would only feel the absence of two people in the group that gathered at the Musain and left forever wondering what had become of them.

Every so often, someone would gather up their courage to voice their question, but then they’d see the pain in Courfeyrac’s eyes and think better of it. So they wove together their own stories with the flimsy threads of idle speculation.

“Did you see the announcement underneath it?” Combeferre asked next, drawing Courfeyrac out of his reverie. 

“The one from the President of the Anti-Kaiju Wall Initiative sending additional funding to rebuild and reinforce the Wall?”

“That’s the one.” Combeferre smiled against Courfeyrac’s shirt as he felt Courfeyrac run his fingers through his hair. His thumb idly rubbed clockwise circles into the back of Combeferre’s skull, provoking a quiet hum of satisfaction from Combeferre. 

“I have something to tell you,” Combeferre said. He hesitated.

“Is this about what I said before I left about our wedding?” Courfeyrac guessed.

Combeferre struggled to come up with a proper response. “Well, sort of. I mean, you’re probably going to end up meeting my parents eventually and I just want you to know right now that I don’t see eye-to-eye with my father.”

Courfeyrac frowned in confusion as Combeferre pulled away from him. He propped himself up on his elbow, his head tilted up so that he could gauge Courfeyrac’s reaction.

“What? What does you father have to do with any of this?”

Combeferre spoke slowly, hoping to ease the impact of his words. “Reinforcing the Wall isn’t a viable long-term solution,” he said. “Though it was thoughtful of him to increase the funding for this sector.”

“Your father - " Courfeyrac struggled, the pieces finally falling together in his mind. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that explains a lot.”

Courfeyrac groaned as he heard the chime of the doorbell.

“Hold that thought,” he said. "And I'm not done talking about our wedding yet."  
  
Courfeyrac sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He made sure Combeferre was properly tucked in before remembering the reason that he had dragged himself out of bed in the first place. 

He peered through the peephole and frowned at the sight of a six foot tall man waiting patiently outside, his hands clasped in front of him. He wore sunglasses, even though it was overcast. Rain fell in a curtain behind him as it sloped off the roof sheltering the front porch. Courfeyrac wondered how the Commander of the Jaeger Initiative had known to look for him at Feuilly’s house.

Courfeyrac turned the deadbolt and opened the door slowly.

“Commander Valjean,” he said, bowing his head in a display of respect. His hand was still clutching the doorknob. “It’s been a while since the last time our paths crossed.”

“It has,” the Commander acknowledged. He spoke quickly, not one to mince words.

“Would you like to come in? I can make you a cup of coffee or something,” Courfeyrac offered as he pulled the door open wider. The Commander remained where he was, his feet squarely placed on the welcome mat. The roof hanging over the front door protected him from the wind and rain.

“No,” the Commander said curtly. “I only came here to ask you a simple yes or no question.”

“Alright, then,” Courfeyrac said, using his hip to prop open the door.

Though he could not see his eyes through his tinted lenses, Courfeyrac imagined his superior narrowing his eyes at him. A clap of thunder sounded as the Commander opened his mouth to speak. Courfeyrac looked over the Commander’s shoulder at the streak of lightning illuminating the sky.

“Would you like to rejoin the Jaeger Initiative?”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think so far! 
> 
> I'm also [here](http://combeferree.tumblr.com) on Tumblr! Feel free to stop by and say hello! :)


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